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Archive for December, 2012

I’m not a tax attorney, but it is my guess that if congress fails to reach a decision in regards to looming tax increases for all, more jobs will be created.

I’ve worked for enough greedy bastards in my day to know that if someone making over $250,000 a year is facing a loss of even a penny, drastic measures till be taken to avoid losing that penny.

Wouldn’t it be better to hire a gay house boy or a college chick to do chores around the house than to throw good money away on more entitlements for our Mexican brethren?

Life for selfish and wealthy mother-fuckers is so much better if they have more people to boss around. They will hire people at minimum wage to avoid paying more in taxes– that’s simple American math.

I say, let’s jump off that fucking cliff! I’m sick of hearing about it, and I know for sure, that the only person paying more in taxes will be me in the end.

Don’t listen to everything Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper are telling you.

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A rich guy was questioned by federal authorities at his office on Lexington Avenue this Thursday. The exact address of the arrest has fallen from my recollection; a new paycheck had been added to my route at work, and I was in a building I had never entered, unfamiliar with sign-in rules for messengers, and totally oblvious to what street address I was at. I was unsure of where the elevators were and was paying more attention to trying to find the eighth floor than to a handful of men who were running through the lobby. I cannot pinpoint the exact address in my memory, but I’ll probably be back there next week, delivering to the eighth floor again, and will update this article when information becomes available.

An older white gentleman serving as a type of door man/ ass- kisser for the movers and shakers of the post Bernie Madoff era, had just accepted a holiday envelope from a well-dressed businessman who had asked the doorman what all the commotion at the revolving doors was about.

Men with guns strapped to well- tailored suits with pricey leather belts invaded the midtown office like FBI agents closing in on the wreckage in Roswell. I kept focused on my job at hand, ignoring all the tension and anxiety the doorman was suffering from in lieu of a scandal erupting on his clock. If only I were a reporter for the Times, or an alien from outerspace, I thought, I’d jot it all down—address and all—and keep tabs on what likely will be on CNN tomorrow, following a nasty crash on the Dow Jones Industrial Average that surely will be caused by this stranger who authorities were now after at a building on Lexington.

As a messenger, I see strange happenings of this type all day long, and trying to make sense of them is useless. I speak rarely a word in these buildings of greed; it’s hard enough keeping my head up with pride, and biting my tongue to keep from saying something to piss of one of the rich Jews who run the town. Calling one of them out on their snobbery and cheapness could easily cost me my minimum wage job, so I have made a secret vow never to speak until being spoken to, and even then, do I rarely mumble anything back. It is the perfect job for a schizophrenic—if only my clients knew, they’d simply melt right before me, but they treat me as one of their own—a low life messenger boy who could do nothing with information gathered while being in the right place at the right time.

The doorman with a Willie Nelson swag, tossed his long, half-grey hair neatly over his shoulders and answered the man who had just tipped him– “They are federal agents with a warrant.” The two men looked at each other and exchanged glances which implied that both knew who exactly the feds were there to investigate, and had no plans on speaking names that were likely not innocent. I’m sure, among white-collar thieves, there is a certain respect that is required when a brother is being nailed to the cross of President Obama’s new financial investment regulations. I did not ask a thing and pretended to be dumb, as I’m sure both men already assumed about the messenger waiting for an elevator.

I quickly entered the elevator after sliding bronze doors had opened. A pleasant chime filled the nerve-wracking silence that mysteriously filled the marble encrusted lobby moments before my car arrived.

On may way out of the bronze doors as the elevator touched back down again on the first floor, the hippy door-man instructed me to use the freight exit because “agents are coming in with someone.”

Indeed, it seemed a man was being escorted into the building tied in handcuffs and the agents surrounded him like Neo in the Matrix. A spinning glass door that seemed to be made of some type of African crystal spun non-stop as rows of men entered. I did not have time to capture an identity of any of these Federal Agents, nor was I sure that one of the men was not Janet Neopolitano.

It seemed rather suspicious to me that a potential felon was being escorted into his office and not out of it, but in a world where pricey Madison Avenue lawyers are now a dime a dozen, and when all evidence of an another “totally legal, offshore account” can be remotely destroyed with the push of an internet button, these methods of interrogation must be quite common for our Federal Authorities.

I stepped out into the cold, put up the black hoodie on my Banana Republic coat, once again disguising myself as some sort of alien, and ran like the wind to the next stop on my route– an endocrinologist office on 29th Street– where I never permit the receptionist to use my pen when she signs my manifest for another fat envelope filled with paychecks.

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December 12, 2012

The Mayan calendar has not yet ended.

Although the Mayan civilization has vanished, offspring of these cannibals just so happen to be my neighbors here in Union City, NJ. I don’t speak much Spanish and it has been difficult for me to interview these latter-day Mayans for insight on what to expect today as our sun lines up perfectly with the center of the Milky Way Galaxy.

Like the rest of modern society, my tan-skinned neighbors seem to care so little about the end of a calendar that is the most exact and precise of any ever invented by higher intelligence here on Earth. How did these primitive people know that our sun lines up with the center of the Milky Way on December 12, 2012, when they did not have powerful telescopes like we do today?

Perhaps we are all little sperm in the balls of a solar system ruled by Jupiter, and this evening, our little dick cums into that big pussy that many millions of stars rotate around. Who will be the first to fertilize the egg that we line up with today?

If it just so happens to be me, be ready to washed out of the giant uterus of life– I look forward to ruling the womb of tomorrow alone, and in peace.

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A man had an epileptic seizure at Times Square on Monday. He was flat on his stomach, his head turned to the side, and I noticed as I quickly rushed by him, on my way out of a porn store just down the street, that his tongue was lapping like the queens who frequent the buddy booths at the Blue Lounge on 40th.

I noticed a man was standing a few feet behind the Epileptic. The stranger stopped to call 911 on his cell phone, I imagined.

It seemed the morning rush hour crowd was content that someone else had taken the time to assist the man gasping for his life. There is so little we can do when encountering a demon possessed man.

Pissed off at people pretending they did not notice, I bent down and rubbed his back and told him that help was on the way. The man on his cell phone could not be seen by the man on his belly flopping like a fish. I didn’t want to be like the commuters on the subway platform who stood around as a drunk man was pushed by a stranger onto the tracks, and lost his life, due mostly to society’s blind eyes caused by these all too convenient I-Phones.

The seizure seemed to slow somewhat the moment I touched the man. I wondered if perhaps my experience as a man with schizophrenia could be felt by the man on his belly, lost in a modern world where it seems absolutely no one gives a rat’s ass.

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Beware of hi-tech elevators in new skyscrapers in Manhattan. In a building along Park Avenue, one never waits more than two minutes to make it to the top floor. Even during rush hour, there is never a long wait for the next car. Simply type in the number of a desired floor, and in less than a second, an LCD monitor advises passengers which elevator bank headed to various heavens will appear next. 

There is no re-typing in of floor numbers once entering the assigned elevator, nor is it necessary to cringe as Jewish women point their middle fingers obsessively at numbered buttons or ‘door close’ switches. 

These post-9/11 anti-terrorist elevator computers group inner-building commuters headed to similar heights together, and the lovely voice of a fem-bot instructs passengers when to discharge. 

While riding a regular elevator while delivering pay checks to a real estate company on Madison Avenue on Thursday, I encountered a middle-aged white woman with what was obviously an adopted Asian girl clinging to her coat tails. I tried to stay out of their business, which is what is expected of elevator commuters in the city, espcaially low-life foot messengers like myself, but the Jew woman had me in stitches laughing.

The woman who had a big nose and her hair tied in a type of Challa twist bun, said to her little girl— 

“When I was your age, elevators had elevator men on them. You told them what floor you were going to, and then they pulled a heavy crank, and up you rose.” 

Thinking of the new elevator in the building on Park Avenue, I could do nothing but agree. I turned to the Asian child to confess, “Yes, those were the old old days.” 

The Jewish mother then added, “It was fabulous back then. You could sit down on a little chair in the elevator and smoke a cigarette if you felt like it, or even have a cocktail.” 

I could feel the woman staring at the back of my neck, awaiting my response. 

I rushed out of the not so fancy elevator on Madison nearly choking on laughter, wishing city life was like it was when the woman was still a little girl. 

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Wearing a uniform at work is not pretty. Foot messengers must wear red, reflective vests at my company. These machine-woven, half- plastic eye-catchers were not designed by Calvin Klein. Wearing them during the holiday season when there are so many tourists in New York make the men on the streets with cardboard boxes look like traffic guards. Because people know we are at work and “represent a company”, we have to act right, like McDonald’s employees must do when someone asks for more ketchup.

Delivering Barnes and Noble boxes from door to door is the hardest job I’ve ever held down, not because the boxes are heavy, but because every lost soul believes that handsome Lasership men in their red vests are about town not only to fulfill on-line orders, but to serve them, as human compasses of sorts.

“Excuse me sir,” an old English woman begged of me last Friday, “please tell me which way 39 East 41st Street is.” I was growing quite cranky along my route on Friday. Isaac, the floor manager at Lasership had given me more than twenty heavy boxes to deliver to the freight entrances of the skyscrapers along 3rd Avenue. I had not the energy to engage the old bag and her husband with free information conversation—especially since I work for minimum wage already. What was it worth to me to be giving away free information while already working like a slave moving stones for Ramses the First? I asked myself, before stopping the lady along her lost way to ask my own question—

“Excuse me, but are you from England?”

“Yes, we are from England,” she said, smiling like the Queen glaring down upon a peasant. My answering a question with a question seemed to stun the broad, and for a moment, I captured a frown from her fake smile. The truth was, before I had asked her where she was from, she seemed to silently imply, in the tone of her masterful voice, that her command of the same language I speak will always be better than my own, and that I will never be like Chaucer, no matter how hard I try.

“I thought so, I just love the accent,” I shared, “now listen, stay on this side of the street and head that way.” I pointed towards the Hudson River. The couple did not know I was sending them West and not North towards 41st, but I considered the rude trick as a way of stimulating a sagging economy.

Surely they must have known we were standing on 37th! There was a green street sign directly behind us. Perhaps they’ll buy something along their lost way, I thought. “Pay attention to the numbers as you stroll along, they will get smaller. As you get closer to the number 39, pay very close attention, because sometimes the buildings don’t have numbers on them. I never noticed that about the streets of New York before I took this job. I get lost every day. It’s very tricky. It’s absolutely maddening when buildings don’t have numbers. One must pay very close attention to where he is going, and not everyone else. This too is a little Island, but we are much more sophisticated here, as you plainly see.”

The couple knew that very instant that I was not the man to be asking directions from, and it seemed they never would again stop a busy Lasership Messenger in his tracks.

The woman’s husband looked at me with compassion, as if I were taking up my cross daily and following a dead end. He smiled like the wealthy in New York City do this time of the year to the little men who bring their boxes.

As they stood there trying to make sense of my directions, a thin beam of sunlight managed to squeeze between two tall buildings on 37th Street, missing the English man’s hunched over shoulder, and striking me in the eye as if to give me hope. The new age English aristocrat was wearing good dentures—wooden one’s I assumed for a moment as the sun seemed to strike the dissonant chords of my heart.

As the old couple walked away from my hand cart stacked high with Amazon.com boxes, I yelled to them, “Hey! Tell George Michael I send my love!”

They smiled with an air of English pride, not knowing who I am, or that John Steinbeck picked apples for a living, while writing, in his head, “The Grapes of Wrath”.

“Oh, and don’t forget to head uptown to 41st Street before you start searching for 39 East. Every Street in the city has a 39 East, including the one you are on” I shouted, before humming that tune by George Michael that I cannot get out of my head this time of year.

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