Tuesday, June 12, 2018

You All Suck (Example #21- Congratulations! You've Raised a Skank)

Recipe for the Modern Staten Island Teenager


* 1 Mated Pair of Douchebags, most likely employed by City Government
* Insufficient instruction on proper use of Birth Control
* 1 set of damaged Chromosomes (male or female, does not matter)
* 1 Public School (mis-)Education
* 1 Smartphone or iPod
* 1 Tblspn of Brain Damage
* 1 Tblspn of Fucktard
* 6 lbs of Middle-Class-With-No-Class Background

Combine ingredients in a cardboard, thrown-up-in-three-weeks, semi-detached housing development that you paid 3 times it's actual value for. Allow mixture to marinate in a dysfunctional home dominated by Reality TV programming, prescription drug abuse, frequent visits from genetically-damaged relatives, and willful blindness to the disobedience, obnoxiousness, and stupidity of the resulting mixture.

When mixture begins to smell of anti-social and retard, send it outside to make it everyone else's problem.

Bake inside a public high school where the majority of graduates got "A"s in Lunch, Gym, and Assembly, and received a diploma they can't read.

Do or say nothing when it starts smoking weed, drinking on weekends, and develops an affinity for percocet.

Defend every evil, banal, stupid, illegal, dangerous, misguided, vicious, depraved. rotten, debased, degenerate, indecent, lewd, perverse, and/or heinous action as if your child is a fucking saint, being unfairly persecuted. Ignore the repeated visits from the local precinct cops as little more than a personal vendetta against your little bundle of scumbag. Swear up and down that you have no idea your kid is a drug dealer, thief, whore, troublemaker, vandal, thug, criminal delinquent. Make sure your defense includes as many obscenities and malapropisms as you can manage while you try to explain to their victim that you're "not that kind of people", make sure you have your finest wifebeater on during this process.

Buy it a Lexus.

Your Overlord is not prone to violence...much. But today he nearly beat the ever-loving snot out of a doofus of about 15 years of age, and was ready to smack the training bras off of the three teenaged girls that accompanied him.

The Scene:

The Overlord is in the local bagel store, ensuring that the supply of Marlboros and Pepsi in his home is restocked. This is a regular occurrence.

Four (4) teenagers, 1 (I think) boy and 3 (I think) girls, are inside the store, making a nuisance of themselves. The Overlord is unaware of the specific activities they engaged in, but the shopkeeper has had enough of them, and instructs one of his employees to throw them out. Your Lord and Master pays for his nicotine and sugar water, and returns to his Nissan Tie-Fighter to begin the voyage home.

Parked to the left of the Tie Fighter is a rather large van. The Overlord checks all his mirrors, to ensure there is nothing or no one behind him, and begins to back out of his parking space.

And then...it happens.

The four reprobates emerge from the far side of the van, where they cannot be seen, and immediately turn to their left, which is to say, into the path of my now-rolling-backwards car. I catch a glimpse of them in the side-view, and jam the brakes, honking the horn as I stop. Another driver, pulling into the lot to their right, also honks his horn. These kids have walked directly into the path of two moving vehicles, faces glued to their goddamned smartphones. They ignore the honking, and proceed to sit on the concrete wall directly behind me, and within maybe 8 feet of the rear bumper.

The Overlord exits the car. The other driver has rolled down his window and is screaming at these dumbasses that the parking lot is "not a playground". I ask these little bastards to move, before I run them over. They insist on sitting still. I ask again, forcefully, and they sullenly and with attitude move exactly two feet to their right. In other words, exactly into the spot where I will be turning into in reverse.

As I back up, I hear the words "Fucking White Devil", and "Fuck you, you fat fuck". Oh, did I mention the young (I think) man was black? His entourage of strumpets is white. I don't say this to make anything racial out of the story, but it is important in the sense that if these girls' parents knew they were hanging out with a black kid, they'd kill them themselves. It makes no nevermind to me.

I gingerly back out of the spot. Pull the car forward to a clear patch of parking lot. The other driver occupies the spot I've just vacated. I exit the car.

I am now nose-to-nose with a fucking punk who has just hurled a racial epithet at me.

I ask him if he has anything he wants to say to me now.

"I don't know what you're talking about", he says.

"Want to repeat what you've just said to me? C'mon, you know you want to. Let me hear it again."

"I didn't say shit".

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Fucking pussy."

I begin to walk away, and then I heard THAT SOUND.

Anyone who lives on Staten Island knows THAT SOUND.

It is a shrill, whistle-y wail, something akin to the noise made by an effeminate walrus with severe nasal congestion. It is the Mating Call of the Staten Island Guttersnipe. It is the curiously non-feminine voice of a prostitute-in-training with a deviated septum, suffering from malnutrition due to the eating disorder she's acquired as a hobby.

She has most likely been painstakingly trained by Mommy on how to give a decent blowjob (usually by live demonstration) and land a husband when she's older. Mommy, you see, was an Olympic Gold Medalist in Tonsil Hockey in her day, before she managed to land a sanitation worker named "Vinny" to keep her in Pay-Less BOGO shoes and all the off-brand "designer" knockoffs at Target she could quickly outgrow, and decided that, having achieved her goal on the 75th or 80th try, she no longer needed to swallow.

But chances are good her phone number is still on the Men's Room wall in at least one of our finest bowling alleys.

In days of yore, the fertile plains of this bucolic island thundered with the hoofbeats of vast herds of these remarkable creatures. And I do mean "hooves", and I do mean "remarkable", the former for obvious reasons (once married and having spat 2.1 bastards out of her stretched-out vagina, they do nothing but gain weight and tattoos) , and the latter for reasons I'm about to explain.

The story begins, as so many New York stories do, in the streets of Brooklyn. For it is here that we find the close relative of the Staten Island Guttersnipe, the Brooklyn Slambag.

Arising from lower-middle-class Greaseball Italian and/or Shanty Irish stock, the Slambag, in it's native habitat, spent it's formative years lying in a horizontal position or sucking on anything put near it's mouth, often both, often simultaneously, in order to catch a husband who could -- to hope, perchance to dream! -- take her to the Promised Land of Statun Eylandt, where she could run free among the malls, enjoy hot-and-cold running mani-pedis, have the kitchen of her dreams (that she would not cook in), with a BMW SUV she can't drive, and raise her fucktarded progeny in an environment where there were no minorities, all in a house that was often rubbed in every other female relative's faces,spending her days subsisting on free-range triple-caramel frappacinos from the "good" Dunkin' Donuts nearby.

The Ultimate Goal, however, was always to move to Statun Eyelandt as a precursor of a bigger move to the Elysian Fields of New Jersey, where the houses were always bigger and there were more malls.

For those of you who do not know Statun Eyelandt History, this migration from Brooklyn, to the Island, to New Jersey is known as the "Mozzarella Trail"or "The Trail of Connolis" to the Italians, and "FindingA Place Where No One Knows Us and Reports Us To Child Welfare" by the Irish.

Alas, not all the Slambags were successful in the journey, and many were doomed to a life of small-town-living-at-big-town-prices in the Swamp that is the Forgotten Borough. The unsuccessful Slambags, following Darwin's theory of evolutionary change often being dictated by geographical isolation, became a new species, the Staten Island Guttersnipe. If you ever find yourself in need of an easy means of identifying the differences between the species; the Slambag wipes her chin with a napkin, the Guttersnipe wipes it on her sleeve, or the back-seat upholstery.

In any case. the Guttersnipe became the dominant species; it has bred in incredible numbers, and it has raised it's youngins to be just as clueless, just as nasty, and three times as stupid, as they ever were, so that the modern incarnation begins her descent into profligacy and delinquency well before puberty.

By the time these...I hesitate to call them "girls"...are 15 or 16, they have the foulest and biggest mouths, they are typically more-violent, aggressive and vicious than the boys they hang around with, and every last one of them can perform amazing feats of sexual deviancy that would make Stormy Daniels retire from utter shame.

I was raised in Brooklyn, and have lived on this island for 37 years. I assure you: this is all true. Two old jokes:

Q: What's the difference between a Brooklyn Girl and a Kit-Kat bar?
A. You can only ever get four fingers in a Kit-Kat.

Q: Why do Staten Island girls wear underwear?
A: To keep their ankles warm.

Since the "boy" doesn't want to repeat what he said, because he hasn't the courage to repeat it to my face, his hareem of harlots did it for him, and added some choice invective of their own. One dared me to hit her.

God, did I want to.

I suddenly took pity upon the boy.

"They have bigger balls than you do. You should be embarrassed."

It became apparent that none of these kids actually understood what they had done wrong, and that short of drawing it on the sidewalk with chalk (next to the outline where one of the bodies would have been, had I not stopped), they were not going to ever get it. All they knew was that they wanted to sit down, and it was my job to avoid running them over. The thought that they might have assisted by watching where they walked, eschewing the phone while in the parking lot, and could have waited another 5 seconds to allow me to get out of the spot safely before sitting down, were alien concepts.

Birth control. We need it. Especially to avoid more girls like this in these parts.

I got back in my car and went home, shaking my head the whole way.

UPDATE: Since someone has already asked, the females of the Greater New York City Area are further divided into additional sub-species. These are:

The Bronx Pincushion
The Manhattan Knee-knocker
The Queens Walking STD
The Long Island Cum Dumpster

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Quite the morning, hobnobbing with some of the island elite.