- Last Updated: 11:52 PM, April 19, 2012
- Posted: 11:52 PM, April 19, 2012
People say New Yorkers are cranky. Always in a hurry. Impatient.
Balderdash. Which is what I’d say if I ever actually used that stupid word.
Tourists see trash on our streets? Locals could tell yokels: “Reason nobody throws out anything in your burb is because there ain’t anything to throw.”
I’m a city person. I live where modern muggers take credit cards.
I understand the city. And I understand pollution. At least you can’t see the insects.
What I don’t understand is hillbilly villages where nobody watches the July Fourth parade because everybody’s in it.
In Utah, I rang a friend. An operator came on with: “I don’t think she’s home. The car’s gone.”
Rubes complain we walk fast. You know why? We have something to do, some place to go and some reason to get there.
A hick’s to-do list on a hot Saturday night is what? Go to the barbershop and watch haircuts?
And how about small-time banks? True, some CEOs of our gigantic financial institutions may be in the can but, listen, nobody’s perfect. Banks in Dullsville are called Myra’s Savings and Loan. Go entrust your life savings to a 16-year-old teller named Cookie?
Around the Rockies, I asked one to change a 20. She said: “Got anything smaller?”
Forget their security system. The only protection is one guy at a door with bad breath.
We who live here maybe might have to walk to the cleaners, run to the shoemaker, hop a bus to the laundromat but . . . no self-respecting New Yorker with the mandatory picture of Bloomberg on his wall lives more than 10 minutes from takeout.
We live vertically. Scramble into a car to see a friend? Please. Better to press the elevator.
Assuming we had gardens, types who spend millions of dollars for a home are not garden variety people. I ask you, where else can anyone climb out of who’sever bed they’re in at 3 a.m. and get a fresh squeezed papaya juice?
Out-of-towners grow wheat, milk cows, raise beef, farm chickens, plant potatoes, collect eggs, make cheese, tend goats and catch fish. And claim we don’t eat properly. Ever hear anything so stupid? In the entire planet, nothing beats that morning coffee we all carry in a stained damp brown paper bag fresh off a street vendor’s cart. Maxwell House with a butler should taste so great.
We also have the best Chinese food this side of Shanghai. Plus Italian. French. Thai. German. Hungarian. Too big with whatever dribbled out of England we’re not. We’ll all run out for Swedish or Turkish but, I mean, anyone call a friend and say: “Hey, how about let’s go tonight for British?”
Hot dogs? We’re the A-1 super best. Coney Island, Yankee Stadium, Sixth Avenue pushcarts, Stage Deli. Ever try one at Fenway in Boston? The skinny thing’s beige. Ever down a beige hot dog? Should I be forced to do it a second time, I’ll have it delivered right to Columbia Presbyterian. This way it’ll save me a trip.
Bagels. Speak not those stale, frozen, precooked circular jobs a supermarket unloads on you in states where a buffalo has the right of way. Or where the all-night, 24-hour diner closes at noon.
Get on the wrong plane? You’re accidentally in, let’s say, maybe — pardon the expression — Wisconsin? Wisconsin’s nice. Especially if you’re one of those freaks into health, fresh air and yawning. What you eat there is cheddar. Bagels, not. Your nearest might be downtown Chicago.
Whitefish, Mont., citizens enjoy saying we city dwellers don’t eat enough fruit. No problem. Bartenders can plop an extra cherry in the Manhattan. A second olive in the martini. To solve the situation, we’ll drink more. We’ll put safety belts on the stools.
Our wonderful beloved USA has marvelous little towns. How little? The Howard Johnson has only one flavor. Tallest building is a Fotomat. The mayor’s kid has a piggy bank. A real pig. The mayor himself is an elk. A real elk. A traffic jam is three people in one car. Formal wear is a T-shirt.
I hate those crappy little hamlets where a dentist’s office is the public library. Where Main Street goes through a car wash.
OK, so, yes, our metropolis does have certain tiny issues, but I personally don’t care what anybody says. Car theft is not a way to solve the parking difficulties.
New York. Our eighth president, Martin Van Buren was a New Yorker. President Clinton stiffed Arizona to live in New York. President Franklin Roosevelt came from New York. President Teddy Roosevelt was a New Yorker. President Nixon wanted to live in New York. Hillary and Andrew, both itchy to be president in future, they live in New York. Our first president George Washington established his original office where? New York.
Foreigners complain New Yorkers are full of themselves. Conceited. Not true. Even though we have every right to be. Are we more important than anyone else? Ridiculous. I mean, just because some of us get our X-rays retouched?
Hey, if you can take it here, you can take it anywhere.Follow @PageSix