Greenpoint
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Culture on the Cheap
Happy St. Paddy’s Day From New York Shitty!
Eat, drink and be merry fellow Greenpointers! Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!
Miss Heather
LAST GASP: Great Moments In (anti)Viral Marketing
This afternoon yours truly spent the afternoon tidying Chez Shitty. As always it was a journey of discovery. It was under a pile of books I found the following item: one of the many treasures I have gleaned from the junk shop over the years.
This may look like an ordinary book of matches (that’s what I thought). I can assure you this is not the case.
And now the reveal.
Naturally I had to learn more about Elegant Limo Service. Alas, their web site is no longer with us. But I did find a curious inquiry on Yahoo Answers:
Me and my sister are throwing a surprise birthday party for our Mother’s 50th birthday.. We would like for a limo to pick her up from her work to bring her to the surprise party. She is very special to us and want to go all out.
I wonder how it went? I suppose we’ll never know. To close on a related note here’s another choice find from the junk shop.
Kicking it old school style in grandma’s parlor! Is that a bottle of Schlitz I spy in this impish lass’s hand?
Miss Heather
New York Shitty Day Starter: Jimmy’s
Kicking off today’s selections I present for your snow day entertainment one of my favorite found photos.
Well, actually this is my second favorite. Yours truly’s favorite find of all time (which, I would like to note, makes Mister cringe— and I’ll readily admit this is probably part of the reason I like it so much) involves involves a can of Welch’s grape soda. I did not post this choice item here because if I had I can assure you it would probably merit many of you a summons to the HR Department. No sir, I’ll conclude this post with slightly more subdued fare: a photo a college buddy Scott shot for me years ago from none other than the Lone Star State!
Look at the sign.
Miss Heather
LAST GASP: V Is For Value-Added
Yours truly has a fair number of bad Valentine’s Days under her belt. The source of said badness never had anything to do with matters romantic. Quite to the contrary: frailties of the flesh were to blame. For this reason I will forever associate a day dedicated to lovers (of all stripes) with vomiting and getting stitches. But I digress.
When I read this*, a tome by my buddy at Bad Advice today I busted a gut. My favorite passages are as follows:
…Then it got bad. The pain from the night before returned, only about a billion times more intense. I lay in bed, holding my belly, and praying it would stop making all those weird noises. It was like there were a dozen drunk elves running around in my intestines. I started to sweat as the rumbles and gurgles grew louder….
…Our bathroom is about three feet from our bed and when I heard Spyro let out what I will describe as “a bathroom noise,” it triggered my gag reflex. At the same time I felt a little gas wanting to sneak out downstairs. I rolled out of bed and discovered that it was actually a value-added fart. (Emphasis mine — Ed. Note) I threw my butt cheeks into lockdown, jammed my palm against my mouth and made a mad dash for the kitchen sink…
I would like to take this moment to thank the proprietress of Bad Advice for one of the most disgusting (and therefore funniest) accounts of a Valentine’s Day gone awry I have ever read. Then again I have grown to expect this kind of gritty, unflinching “in the trenches” view from the battlefield that is love (and occasionally war) from her. She is after all the woman responsible for raising my awareness about Smegmen. And for this I am eternally grateful.
Get well Dategirl— and thanks!
Miss Heather
*CAVEAT: this is not for the feint at heart.
New York Shitty Day Ender: President’s Day Edition
Filed under: Area 51
I cannot think of a better way to end this, President’s Day 2010, than with this tribute to all things American— and Richard Milhous Nixon. After considerable thought I have decided to occasionally feature photographs I have found/collected over the years on this site as they are relevant and/or of seasonal interest. I can hardly wait for St. Paddy’s Day. You’re in for a real treat!
Miss Heather
Happy Valentine’s Day From New York Shitty!
Filed under: Area 51
This one goes out to the Mister. The man for whom my loving cup of a heart overfloweth on a daily (or at least fort-nightly) basis. Put on your Lectra socks because— shuttle buses be damned— we’re going out on the town!
Miss Heather
From The New York Shitty Inbox: PABS
Filed under: Area 51
Donna (who brought this item to my attention) writes:
Thought you might get a kick out of this. The logo is hilarious! Not quite battery operated socks, but close!
I have perused this site. The snappy graphic (and the sound effects which accompany it) are quite something. Be sure to check out the promotional video as well. It makes for some, um, interesting snow day entertainment.
Miss Heather
New York Shitty Day Ender: Not Your Mother’s Scrapbook
If there’s one thing being a junkstress has given me it is some insight into the human condition. Every day is a new day and with it comes boxes upon boxes of stuff— formerly someone else’s stuff— for me and my cronies to sort through. This appeals to my inner anthropologist. Usually this process is boring— but sometimes it isn’t. Which brings me to these scrapbooks:
They look innocent enough, yes? Never judge a book by its cover.
Yup.
Needless to say the Mister found them of interest. Before I settled into bed with a hot cup of tea to parse someone else’s (meticulously documented) fantasy life (with a shot of P.J. O’Rourke on the side— I was feeling dirty) we glanced at a few pages.
Me:
Is that Candice Bergen?
Maybe I should do this?
Inquired the Mister. I glared at him and turned the page. As luck (?) would have it, when I did we were sobered by a rather explicit photograph of a mass grave at Bergen Belsen. That ended the discussion. He went into the living room to quaff Old Fashions and watch Turner Classic Movies. And I got down to business.
Observations/Discussion from the Chez Shitty Forum:
1. It is an admirable, if abject, testament to perseverance.
2. It’s a “Who’s Who” of boobs from the mid 1940’s to 1980.
3. It’s like watching Spike T.V. without actually having to watch Spike T.V. (I’m not complaining, it’s better than Lifetime.)
4. When I see this level of documentation (at right), it gets my respect. 
Albeit as the expense of the mainstream press.
5. The man who assembled this personal archive (and after much debate the Mister and I agreed only a man would do something like you see at left) was a (to use my crude parlance) a “Bucket of KFC” kind of guy: breasts, thighs and legs.
6. He appears to a have a fondness for blondes— but red heads make an appearance every now and then.
7. Points #5 and #6 would explain the total absence of Audrey Hepburn, arguably one of the most beautiful women— inside and out— to ever grace this mortal coil. Too lanky. Too brunette.
8. Me to the Mister: I’m surprised this man didn’t graduate to pornography. (Flips page to find a spread— in the most explicit and literal sense of the word— from Swank magazine entitled “I Have A Dream”. ) Scrub that.
One can only wonder what Martin Luther King would think of this.
CAVEATS:
- If pin-ups upset you, do not look at this slide show.
- If the the female body in general upsets you, do not look at this slide show.
- If knowing someone, somewhere thought Angela Lansbury was sexy upsets you, do NOT look at this slide show.
Without further ado, here are some highlights from my 100+ page excursion to Girlieland. Enjoy!
Before anyone maligns me for being “offensive” I would like to point out:
- Tits and ass are nothing compared to atrocities human beings are capable of inflicting on each other. Which do you find more offensive: this or this? The latter merits front page coverage nowadays (just look at the New York Post), the former is the stuff of sexual harassment suits (which, it should be noted, is also something Rupert Murdoch, et. al. is contending with).
- While feminist, I do have a sense of humor. Send out the reporters! Stab me with a needle! I will bleed! No need to erect a cucking stool to dip my agitating person into Newtown Creek. I will not go to Woodhull. I will go to St. Vincents. I have health insurance!
- I would not have been able to write such a tome if there were not brave women who cleared the path for me: Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Germaine Greer, Gloria Steinem and…
Uh, nevermind…
Miss Heather
EXTRA SPECIAL PROPS: Go out to EV Grieve for capturing the latter most turd. I re-posted it here, albeit without your permission, but with proper credit. As for P.J. O’Rourke, if you’re reading this: you’re the only Republican I’d have dinner with— albeit with a very long fork! Oh yeah, I’m a vegetarian and you’re paying.
Audience Participation Time: Cut & Pasty
One of the things I have been endeavoring to do over the last two months is dedicate more time to my own art work. Unfortunately after I get done writing New York Shitty I find myself bereft of any energy to do so. Last weekend this changed. Thanks to my site being down I had the time. Lots of time. What’s more, I had the inspiration. My “eureka moment” came in the way they often do: a discussion at a bar.
The topic of said discussion was the lack of privacy one has in New York City apartments. One need never know when he (or she) will glance out a tenement window to see a neighbor au naturel. I myself have had this experience. Its consequences exacerbated an already tense situation.
I never learned the woman’s name. This is a shame as I know quite a lot about her. This is because she had a habit of sitting in her apartment window chain smoking and talking on her cell phone for hours on end seemingly oblivious to the fact my husband and I could hear every word she was saying. These lengthy monologues would waft into our bedroom along with traces of the crappy weed she would occasionally indulge in. I can’t really bring myself to disdain this woman for predilection for the latter. After all, she was a city employee and probably on a tight budget. But I digress.
As time waxed on, the Mister and my amusement over Cathy’s activities morphed from amusement to annoyance. After she started throwing parties for her equally noisy friends the latter, in turn, transmogrified into extreme hatred. I suspect she sensed this and a cold waresque cloud of mutual contempt formed over our respective households. Chez Shitty was South Korea, our mutually shared “back yard” was Checkpoint Charlie and Chez Cathy was Democratic People’s Republic of Dumbass. Coexistence was for the most part peaceful. Nonetheless one could palpably sense all that was needed to send the situation to hell in a hand basket was a provocation. One day it finally happened: I looked out my bedroom window.
My husband was reading in bed. He wanted to speak to about something. I do recall what. That has been clouded by the fog of war and what happened next: after talking to him I looked up. To see Cathy buck naked. Before I could avert my gaze we locked glances. I could see the rage fill her face. It was done. She promptly shot me the finger and yanked the drapes shut. I suppose I can understand her reason for upset. Then again, her assumption I wanted to look at her rather pendulous breasts was a wee bit presumptuous. Mammary glands hold no amazement for me— and even if they did I needn’t go far to find a pair. Why go out for hamburgers when you can stay home and have steak? But back to my story.
Conversely, one need always be on the lookout for his or her own privacy. These things happens to the best of us. The phone rings as you are about to step into the shower. You dash to answer it and two thirds into your discussion you look up to see an old lady hanging her laundry staring at your hairy ass in abject horror. What to do, you ask? Well at long last I have the answer. Courtesy of lady named Rebecca while having drinks at a place called the Brooklyn Ale House:
I think I am going to get my nipples tattooed so they look pixelated.
That’s when divine inspiration struck. I don’t how the following found its way out of my mouth, but I am very happy it did:
That sounds kind of painful. Why not just make pasties of your own pixelated nipples instead? It’d be a lot cheaper.
The die had been cast. I simply had to find the time and wherewithal to implement my nefarious plan. Then lo, New York Shitty crashed! I considered this to be a sign and got cracking. I did not make the Mister aware of my project. Such endeavors are best done in artistic seclusion.
Long story made short, the cat eventually bolted out of the bag when he shifted his attention from the Lehrer News Hour to my computer monitor.
Those are your breasts.
He noted.
Yes, they are.
I replied.
Do you need me to take more pictures of them?
He inquired with disquieting alacrity.
No, I have the situation well under control.
I assured him.
Are you sure?
He persisted.
Quite sure, thank you.
He went back to watching the news and I went back to work. As the creative process unfolded I had a second epiphany:
Why hide my pixelated lights under a bushel? Why not make it so as anyone can wear them? Why not let “the girls” go global? And so I did. After a few fits and starts Boobification 2.0: Project Cut & Pasty was finally born!
By clicking on the above image you can make your very own Cut & Pasties! What you do with them is your own business.
If there is a lesson to be learned here it is this: do not let, under any circumstances, let New York Shitty go offline. All this does is give me WAY too much time on my hands. I get bored. And as you can see when I get bored interesting things tend to happen.
Miss Heather
A Tale From The Junk Shop
Filed under: Advanced Life Forms, Area 51, Crazy People, Criminal Activity, Culture War
I am not going to lie: New York Shitty’s latest outage really pissed me off. This has happened with enough frequency that even my patience (and believe it or not I am endowed with quite a lot of this virtue— albeit probably at the expense of a few others) was exhausted. To cite one such example of the patience I am indeed capable of I present for your entertainment a junk shop story.
PREAMBLE
As I have stated before, when I am left in charge interesting things happen. Today I was a magnet for anyone coming in under the influence of mind-altering substances. Or if these individuals were not under the influence, they should probably get whatever is afflicting them looked into. But I am not paid to be psychiatrist. I am a junk woman. In this capacity I have one goal and one goal only: make the sale or induce them to leave, preferably as peacefully as possible. I have many tools in my arsenal for just this purpose. The axe (which you see at left) is not one of them. Yet.
My “professional career” has largely centered around dealing with the general public. The first and hardest lesson I learned is a significant number of homo sapiens are quite insane. I rarely shout or raise my voice. I hate shouting. I employ this tactic sparingly, but for those of you who are wondering (and I know a number of you are) I usually employ my “outdoor voice” for purchasers of pornography.* I do not object to “adult material”. I have grown to accept that as long as there is a market for such things (men) it will exist. Rather, a great many purchasers of these materials are cheap. Very cheap. And loud. VERY LOUD. As I said before, I hate shouting— but I have learned that bellowing out every item the prospective purchaser is raising hell over for everyone’s edification along with the asking price cuts down on time spent haggling significantly. But I digress.
Porn enthusiasts with tight wallets constitute a very small part of the troublesome clientele I encounter. For the rest my “public servant” persona has proven to be by far the most effective. This can best be described as a cross between Nurse Ratched, suicide hotline operator and Hal 9000.
CASE IN POINT: Man walks into store.
Do you work here?
He asks. BIG RED FLAG. This man has bought merchandise and held entire conversations with yours truly on a number of occasions. One was about how he blacked-out under the influence of hallucinogenics, went bat shit in a store one day, came back a week later not remembering what happened and couldn’t understand why the help was scared shitless of him. Yup.
Me (reluctantly): Yes.
Man: I want a price for a table.
Me (with extreme trepidation): Okay.
I look at said table. There is another table on top of it; it has a price tag of $10.00. The table under it is inexplicably the only item without a price tag. I spy a price tag on the ground nearby. I know for a fact all these items were priced yesterday. One item without a tag + one tag discarded on the ground. Face down. Do the math.
Me: That’s strange. This is the only piece of furniture without a price tag...
Man: Isn’t that (pointing to the table on top) the price?
I want you, dear readers, to take a moment to think about this.
Me: I’m going to ask the manager.
Man: I have talked to him about this already. The price keeps going up and down.
It is a common scam at the junk shop for prospective clients, when unsatisfied with the price one employee has given him (or her), to try to solicit a quote from another employee on the sly. They do so under the presumption we do not communicate with each other. We do. Hence why this ruse rarely works. What I find fascinating here is:
- This person is telling me he has already received a quote from someone else.
- He is not happy with the asking price…
- and makes it pretty clear this is why he is asking me for a quote.
- In essence he has foiled his own scheme. If indeed he had one.
I take a moment to mull over the previous points and replied.
If you have spoken to the manager about this table I am not getting involved.
Long story made short: he and the manager agreed upon $20.00 for this table. He took it home.
DENOUEMENT
Later a co-worker of mine walked in with the errant price tag. It read:
A steal for $30.00!
She asked:
I wonder what this was for?
Me:
Maybe someone didn’t interpret it as a price tag but as an instruction manual.
The End.
Miss Heather
*As it would happen today another junkman, a regular and overall nice guy, came to the store. He (we’ll call him “M”) and Larry da Junkman were recounting tales of a fellow junkman (who we will call “N”). He had recently died. M told a tale about N which inspired me so much I asked him to repeat it. Here it is. Albeit in highly simplified form.
N once decided to rent a bunch of pornographic VHS tapes. Then he proceeded to:
- excise all the pornography out of them and return them to the video store.
- Inasmuch as I understand, N then proceeded to take all the “naughty bits”, splice them together and compile his own video.
I found this strangely brilliant. I told M just this. He was perplexed:
He was crazy. I could understand if he was an artist or something.
I have often fantasized about taking some of the more vile pornographic videos home, splicing all the pornographic material out of them, returning them to the junk shop and waiting for (the inevitable) hilarity to ensue…
In comes a man exclaiming that his VHS tape “Butts Behind Bars”, purchased for $2.00 has no butts. Only a g-string of a plot. I will look at him with wide-eyed amazement and ask him, being the customer service-oriented person that I am:
- what was lacking from said movie
- in explicit detail, e.g.; how many anal double penetrations were you promised? How many did you actually see?
I will document the previous complaint in the same manner I did as a former civil servant: in copious— or this case coital— detail. And laugh my ass off after he leaves.
What can one expect for $2.00 in New York City anymore? A “Recession Special” cup of joe on Bedford Avenue will set you back $2.00. Riding the subway costs $2.25 per ride the last I checked. I quit checking. I invest my money in comfortable shoes, not metrocards. $2.00 for an excised porno strikes me as being very reasonable— if MTA-esque— bargain: you tender money with the expectation of gratification and receive nothing in return. Just information.
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