Greenpoint
Lorven Pharmacy
Culture on the Cheap
Explosive Gas & A Bunch of Hot Air
Filed under: Bum Shit, Crazy People, Dung of the Day, Greenpoint Magic, Other Shit
Last week I came across a comment* on the Gowanus Lounge from an oil spill disbeliever (yes, they really do exist). I couldn’t help but snicker when I read this:
…As for the explosive gas, it was Keyspan natural gas lines that needed to be repaired, not the oil spill.
Maybe he’s right? It’s something else. Just this weekend I saw the remains of a massive explosion on Java Street.
It’s the Greenpoint Chili Relleno Spill! Maybe I should contact the EPA and request a vapor test be conducted?
Miss Heather
*Be sure to check out the novel this whack job defender of Greenpoint’s virtue wrote in response to my rebuttal. It’s a hoot! Be sure to strap on your tin foil hat first so the many conspirators behind the vast smear campaign that is the GREENPOINT OIL SPILL won’t come to get you!
Turdy Tomfoolery
One of my credentials for being a Dog Shit Queen has nothing whatsoever to do with dogs; I am the keeper of one of the most disgusting cats that ever walked this planet. After a period of relative inactivity last night “Stinky” (whose real name is Frances) lived up to her moniker with a vengeance.
My first attempt at going to bed was at 9:30. I was very tired. As I laid in bed waiting to doze off, my next door neighbors decided to fire up one of the worst-smelling spliffs I have ever whiffed. One of them even said:
This is the sorriest joint I have ever seen.
As the odor began to waft into my apartment I found myself agreeing with her. Whoever sold this woman that shit must have laughed his (or her) ass off all the way to the bank. “I can’t sleep smelling that shit.” I groused while getting out of bed. I played on the computer for an hour and tried to go back to bed again.
I laid there. I got up and had a glass milk. I resumed laying there. No sleep in Brooklyn.
shugga, shooooogah, shoogah— blech!
Frances deposited a pile of gack on my side of the bed.
Pleased by the artful placement of this pile of puke, “Stinky” elected to do an encore.
BLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLECH!
“God, will she ever stop?” I thought to myself as the perfume of rancid cat food ravaged my nostrils. She then hopped onto the bed in the hopes of getting a little post-vomitous cuddling. It was midnight. I had yet to fall asleep. This is when a new odor manifested for my olfactory pleasure.
UGH!!!! IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT IN HERE!
I hopped out of bed and grabbed a paper towel; I know the drill. “Are you going to help me with this Sam?” I shouted.
I’m trying to sleep.
He whined. This was not the answer I was looking for, so I turned on the bedroom light. “You could help me with this, you know.” I said.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP!
He shouted while squirming like a 200+ pound night crawler.
I’M TRYING TO SLEEP TOO. BUT IT’S KIND OF HARD TO DO WHEN THE BEDROOM SMELLS LIKE SHIT!
I replied. My husband was born in the year of the pig. This is the only explanation I can come up with as to why he can sleep in a room waller that smells like crap.
It was clear I was on my own so I held Frances down with one hand and proceeded to remove the shit biscuit that was caked to her ass with the other. This is not an easy task when you have 13 pounds of feline resistance fighting you every step of the way. Hubby slept through the entire procedure.
Having accomplished my mission I got an idea. Tip-toeing quietly I sauntered to his side of the bed, leaned over and held this morsel two inches away from his nose. His nose twitched in displeasure, then his eyes opened.
OH MY GOD!!!
He bellowed.
“I was trying to SLEEP!” he whined. Was, indeed! Tee-hee!
“Tough shit.” I said and proceeded to the kitchen so I could ditch the shit and laugh my ass off.
My ears might have been playing tricks on me, but I swear I heard him mumble the word “bitch” before rolling over and going back to sleep.
Miss Heather
The Finger
Much has been made of the “Finger Building” of late, but what about its lesser known accomplice the “Finger Shit”? Well, I discovered it recently on 7th Street in the East Village.
The likeness is uncanny if you ask me. One for each pile driver. How appropriate!
Miss Heather
The Gruesome Twosome
Yesterday my husband and I went to Manhattan. Being the colossal klutz I am, I managed to utterly destroy my cell phone last week. The beginning of our jaunt in the city was spent at the Verizon store on Broadway securing a replacement. What happened next will be permanently ingrained in my olfactory memory.
As we were exiting Forbidden Planet my new phone rang. It was my buddy Rachael. Not knowing how to use my new toy, I hung up on her. She called back. I promised to call her back in a moment. And I did— but not before passing by some crazy homeless dude on 13th Street shouting at his reflection in storefront window while doing his best Kung Fu moves.
This guy was bat shit crazy. If a convention was held for insane homeless people, this chap would be crowned the craziest of them all. I took note and called my buddy Rachael. That’s when it happened.
OH
MY
GOD!!!
Gasping for air, I yelled into my cell phone:
Rachael, I have to call you back!
Not only was this dude the most insane homeless person I have ever beheld, he was the creator of the MOST MALODOROUS PILES OF BUM SHIT I have ever whiffed. The above photographs do not even come close to conveying the horror my nose experienced. Even 24 hours later the sight of these shits make me throw up a little.
Miss Heather
Return of the Shit Crawler
Yesterday I found a most exceptional pile of poop. After several weeks of paltry fecal offerings (diarrhea, mostly), it finally happened. The Garden Spot produced a bowel movement worthy of being called the “Dung of the Day”. This sculptural pile of poo also proved to be a perfect canvas on which to create my entry for Third Ward‘s Art Ate New York competition.
I rushed home to get my supplies. My husband was nowhere to be found. Thinking quickly, I called him on his cell phone.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!?
I bellowed. “At the Black Rabbit.” he said. I should have known better; when all else fails the Mister can usually be located on a bar stool. “I found the PERFECT pile of shit for my project! HURRY UP AND FINISH YOUR COCKTAIL! I will be down there to get you in ten minutes. We need to act fast!”
Heart racing, I swung by the Black Rabbit and collected my husband. We made double time to the intersection of Noble Street and Manhattan Avenue (where the above merde morsel was located). I heaved an enormous sigh of relief when I discovered it was still there. Not wanting to waste any more time, I got right down to business. Soon enough, I had an audience.
A woman eating a tomato (whose curiosity was piqued by the sight of a blue-haired chick in a kilt crawling around on the sidewalk) approached. When she saw my creation she laughed— as did numerous onlookers. Save this guy.
Though clearly confused, he did nothing whatsoever to stop me. That’s what I love about Greenpoint: people leave you the fuck alone. Which is a good thing given that this, my latest opus, came out so smashingly it would have been a crime to interfere with its creation.
Looks like a stray droid is at large on Noble Street.
Much to the dismay and amusement of the local populace promenading along Manhattan Avenue. People who, amusingly enough, seemed to walk in single file. Perhaps to hide their numbers?
Miss Heather
This Is Glorious (Even By New York Standards)
Today I have the honor of presenting a contribution from outside.in‘s very own editor, Hillary Byrum. She writes:
As the editor of outside.in, I spend a lot of time surfing the Brooklyn portion of the site and I’m always psyched when I’m bounced to NewYorkShitty – it’s great. Anyway, I snapped a crappy (pun intended) photo of this “situation” earlier today around Berry & S.2nd and I thought of your blog. I’m not sure why this mess is where we are drawing the line between tolerable and intolerable street-piss/poop, but I’m tickled that someone was inspired to build a weird little sandwich board.
Thanks again Hillary for this stunning example of dog shit signage!
Miss Heather
Bright Lights, Big Shitty
This morning I found my person in elevated state of fabulousness. Unlike many of the impeccably-wrecked 20-somethings I call neighbors, my mid-30’s person knew this was a day to promenade my bad self in (where else) WILLIAMSBURG. Unlike men, who are considered to be ‘distinguished’ as they get older, women are not. I grasp the odd MILF straws when I find them, and today was one such day.
I called my buddy Rachael on her cell. She was at McCarren Park. We rendezvoused and proceeded to poo poo the Bedford Avenue cat walk with our fine-ass Greenpoint selves. We were in the belly of the beast and we prevailed! On Berry Street the bowels of the beast gave us an offering in return.
A mini bottle of Vodka. Poop was presenting. But the Bic pen cap was what triggered the fit of rage I had today*.
Back in 2001 (when I had a “real” job and no self esteem whatsoever) I did weight training at the Greenpoint YMCA. After a particularly heavy workout (and drinking copious amounts of water) I needed to go to the bathroom. BAD. I went to the women’s locker room— which some cretin saw fit to equip with two stalls.
I wait. And wait.
Inasmuch I believe being a lesbian would solve many of my (mal)adjustment problems, the sad fact is I am not one. Not for wont of trying. But, as Scarlett O’Hara Said:
Tomorrow is another day!
What I saw in that bathroom stall was a set-back in this endeavor. FOREVER. After hopping around like a circus chimp with crabs for several minutes, I peeked at female who was reluctant to vacate my much-needed stall.
It was a 40-something Polish soccer mom snorting cocaine from a plastic Bic pen cap.
Just like the one in the above photo.
We are all addicts, each and every one of us. But for the love of god please:
- exercise your additions with panache, e.g.; if you’re going to take up a high-dollar habit, get the proper accoutrements and
- do not interfere with my essential bodily functions!
Miss Heather
*That and finding some shitty-ass piece of jewelry I priced at the junk shop for $3.00 at a “ritzy” vintage shop on Grand Street marked-up to $45.00. Bad fashion has a price. Perhaps Williamsburg has an idiot tax? I can only hope so.
More McGuinness Merde
The first thought that crossed my mind when I saw these piles of puddin’ was “Gee, whoever passed this bowel movement wasn’t feeling well.”
The next thought that crossed my mind was “HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET OUT OF MY REFRIGERATOR!?! GO HOME!!!“.
Miss Heather
P.S.: You know, the apocalypse would never get enough traction to start in Greenpoint. No one would even notice.
P.S.#2: Anyone remember when someone found a rocket launcher on the Greenpoint side of the Pulaski Bridge several years ago? That was the talk of the town for weeks, yet I cannot find a single story about it online. Hmm…
Aum Shit
Yesterday I had a revelation: Green Street isn’t as shit-bombed as it used to be. In fact, my little corner of Greenpoint has cleaned up significantly. Terrified that the primary premise of my humble blog was rendered obsolete, I made a hasty trip to the liquor store. That’s when I found this and realized that everything was going to be okay.
If you step in a pile of dog shit (at 1055 Manhattan Avenue) and no one sees it, does it still make a stink?
Miss Heather
Java Street Jackasses
Saturdays are serious work days for me. As incomprehensible as it may seem to some, I like this arrangement. When the cubicle monkeys are slaving away, I go out to play. And vice versa. Never shall the two of us meet.
This morning was busier than most. After awakening at 7:45 a.m. and trying to:
- write
- play around with a few photos I took
- compose emails
- and failing miserably at all the above
I realized it was 10:15 a.m. Time to go. Fifteen minutes ago. The first item on my agenda was checking out the grand opening of the Yard Gallery on Java Street. What I beheld there was a bit disappointing, but they were still setting up. Greenpointers are not early to rise. Greenpointers may not be healthy or wealthy— but we are wise. Unlike these assholes.
This is the site of soon-to-be Belvedere XII: 150 Java Street. It was featured in this post. Usually when one is engaged in illegal activity he (or she) tries to be discreet. These contractors were not. Their little heads told their big heads hiss and holler at anything wearing a skirt. Or a kilt— which was what I happened to be wearing at this morning.
In hindsight I realize I was asking for it. I should have known better. The thought of bagpipes and log-tossing gives boners. To idiot boneheads.
Apparently someone took issue with their nefarious (and very noisy activity) this morning, called 311 and filed a complaint with the Department of Buildings regarding “off-hours” construction without a permit. He (or she) was not the only one to do so either.
Will anything come of it? Probably not. Such is the cat and mouse game developers play here nowadays. I know this because people like me (READ: renters) usually end up being losers.*
Miss Heather
*Because we are clearly too poor, stupid and/or lazy to buy a condo. My monetary worth is only good for a nail job. Which (of course) reflects my intellectual aptitude and overall worth as a human being woman.
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