Insight Schminsight

Those eagle-eyed readers among you will notice I haven't blogged for awhile. I got bogged down in the notion that I had to have something to say. This turns out to be false. You can write tons and tons of words without ever having anything to say; otherwise the entire Sweet Valley High book series would not exist. I had those books as a kid. They concerned a suburban California town so deranged that the high school held a prom once per book. Also the townspeople were so fatuous and superficial they didn't even realize they were fictional characters.

(Don't you think you'd notice if you were a fictional character?* I know I would. The first thing I'd do is rob a deli, since the fictitious among us can't get arrested. Just speaking hypothetically here.)

Now it's all coming back to me. I think it went something like this: the heroines of the books were the blonde and beautiful Wakefield twins, who went around saving Sweet Valley from anyone who had the bad judgment to be poor or sexual or black or otherwise not the blonde and beautiful Wakefield twins. Then at the end they would have a prom.

Of course, as a kid I didn't notice much except the prom scenes, and the fact that everyone in Sweet Valley was extremely attractive. I now realize this was due to an efficient municipal culling policy whereby all ugly people were bludgeoned. But when you're little you don't read between the lines. I mostly read the books as light entertainment during meals. The books lived out in crumbling cardboard boxes in our garage in Florida, where, remarkably, giant roaches never ate them. I now realize this was because they had standards.

But back to me, even though I'm not a Wakefield twin. I've put up a brick wall against blogging for awhile, partly because I've been busy, but also because I thought I had to have insight. This is that peculiar power of observation that allows you to comment on things in a manner so profound that people make vague appreciative noises while thinking about other things. Observe the difference between an insightful person and a normal unobservant plebe:

STIMULUS: A glass of wine.
INSIGHTFUL PERSON RESPONSE: "The full-bodied overtones, sepulchral with a hint of nepotism, bring to mind the pituitary secretions of the Andorran jackal, but without the panache."**
NORMAL PERSON RESPONSE: "Gimme more wine."

STIMULUS: A figure skater.
INSIGHTFUL PERSON RESPONSE: "His jumps are reminiscent of the legendary Ulrich Salchow, although they lack the fluidity of the late, great Hans Triple Flip."
NORMAL PERSON RESPONSE: "Gimme more wine."

STIMULUS: An express train decides to go local as you're rushing to work.
INSIGHTFUL PERSON RESPONSE: "Hey, don't stress! It's not about getting there fast, it's about reveling in the journey along the way."
NORMAL PERSON RESPONSE: (Takes out machete, heads toward insightful person first)

Of course, let me be clear: I'm NOT saying you should go out and buy a machete. They're expensive; try and borrow one first.

Now that I realize I'm more the normal type than the insightful type, life is so much easier. I can write about whatever I want without it having to have any point. Takes the pressure off!

With that in mind, I've taken it upon myself to prepare the following list of pointless topics about which I have many things to say:

1. Cab drivers who refuse to drive to my house, predicated on the argument, patiently and painstakingly explained to me, that my house does not exist
2. Bubble tea
3. Small children: The case against
4. Bubble tea
5. The speed at which my floor spontaneously generates filth despite the fact that I have just vacuumed or am actually vacuuming at that moment
6. Musical theatre: harmless pastime or leading threat to global health?

I'll let you decide that last one based on the following photo, taken at my neighborhood thrift store. These books were placed right next to each other. One is clearly the question, the other the answer:

Coincidence? I THINK NOT. Especially because I was the one who placed them there.

Anyway, you can expect to hear more about these topics, and many others, at the new 'n' improved Snark. And if you're thinking that now all my entries will have no point, well, that is exactly the point.





* MAYBE YOU ARE.
** Source: Your senior thesis.

Crying Foul

Lately I've been thinking about bad words. Like unwanted family members, they've become so much a part of the landscape that no one notices them anymore. For instance, I bet you didn't notice that even the friendly pre-recorded male voice on the New York City subway uses foul language ("Stand clear of the *@#!@-ing closing doors, please"; "This is 176th @!!&%-ing Street"). The barista at Starbucks says, "Would you like your #$%^-ing receipt?" and you say, "Yes, **&$# you."

Obviously this signals the degradation of our society, which clearly was not degraded enough to begin with, even when we started wearing thongs. (Think about it: as a society, we did this voluntarily. Of course there are honorable exceptions, such as the Pope.) (I am assuming here.)

My point, as you have no doubt guessed, is this: we need to return to the refined language of a bygone era. I realize most of us are ill-equipped to remember a cultural zeitgeist any longer ago than Full House, but I assure you we had even older eras. Think back to elementary school, when you learned about Abraham Lincoln. Can you imagine how the Gettysburg Address would read if written today?

Four score and seven #$%^^& years ago
Our fathers, those sons of @#$%!-es, brought forth...

But you know what's really weird, when you think about it, is that most people nowadays use bad words without even being angry. This is really jarring to me. I grew up in a house where no one used foul verbiage except in the case of a seriously rage-inducing event, such as a severely backed-up toilet. But now I hear people use these words in completely temperate situations, situations where no plunger is even thought of. ("Ya goin' to the &#$%-ing store?"  "Yeh, I'll pick you up some @($%^-ing Rolaids."  "Thanks, @#$%-er %(#%-er.")

This bothers delicate lilies such as myself. I was raised to believe you never use these words without just provocation, such as you are being garroted or have just been presented with tickets to Wicked. That's why our language needs to change. Only when we "up our game" verbally can we pull ourselves out of the current linguistic dark age. One good option would be to hearken back to the verbal modes of Shakespeare. Consider the following exchange, before enhancement:

PERSON A: I think Football Team X is a %^$*#-load better than that pile of %($^ Football Team Y.
PERSON B: Oh YEAH??? C'mere, you @$*%#&!
(They pull each other's ears off)

Whereas with a few Shakespearean tweaks, voilà! Iambic pentameter:

PERSON A: My lord, my liege, in sooth I do aver
That worthiest of entities, Team X
Doth kick real good the nutties of Team Y.
Dost thou agree?
PERSON B:      Thou prick, c'mere, let's fight.
(They pull each other's ears off)

No, wait, that's no better. Plus, this option requires training, so that you'll be able to pull out those Shakespearean flourishes at a moment's notice, and who among us has that kind of time? This is why machetes are useful, in a pinch, but that is not my point.

Another, potentially less time-consuming alternative would be simply to give well-considered, articulate voice to your every waking thought. I will use the example of a person I know whom we will call Mrs. R.,* who was once bitten on her finger by her dog while feeding it (the dog) (not the finger) bits of meat. Whereupon Mrs. R. unleashed the following stream of bad words:

MRS. R.: (Feeding the dog)
DOG: Omnomnomnomnom (BITE)
MRS. R.: (BAD WORDS)

Pretty unimaginative, am I right, folks? Now think how much more articulate of a contribution Mrs. R. could have made to human discourse if she had verbalized her emotions as follows:

MRS. R.: (Feeding the dog)
DOG: Omnomnomnomnom (BITE)
MRS. R.: I feel great rage at this moment, as manifested both literally and in a sense symbolically, by the seeping wound upon my finger. A curse upon you and all your hairy little ancestors.
DOG: Boy, are you ever an ***hole.

Yes, verbal communication is extremely important. You see how they hashed that out? Just think of the pent-up feelings that might otherwise never have been communicated. Can you imagine, for example, the pain and suffering that might come of never cursing your dog's ancestors, let alone never knowing that you're an asshole?

This is why my dream stands strong of one day living in a world devoid of emptily used dirty words. Yes, granted, they are an instant and handy thoroughfare to emphatic self-expression. But I urge you to take a brave first step by using them at least sparingly. When, you ask? To make it simple, let's limit your bad-word use strictly to the following extreme situations: (a) when evil ninjas attack your house; (b) when you burst into flames, and of course (c) those Wicked tickets.






* This is so you will not uncover her true identity as Mrs. D.

Another Year, Another Set of Extremely Moderate Goals

Now that 2013 has passed, it's time to reflect at length and smugly on your proudest accomplishments of the year. Because however inconsequential they may be to the rest of the world, you know -- deep in your heart -- that they surpassed the accomplishments of people more pathetic than you. At least, probably. On which note, here are mine:

1. I achieved a 94% success rate in leaving one or both appliance chargers at home en route to far-flung lands, and
2. I spent an estimated 10,391 hours on the phone with the state health insurance hotline, which is pretty impressive when you note there are only 8,760 hours in a year.

Call me a braggart if you will, but I believe these accomplishments are pretty darned admirable, especially when you consider I wasn't even working with a life coach. 

Let's take a closer look at #2 in particular. I'm going to go ahead and call this my most heroic feat of all time, given I spent all but 20 minutes of it connected to the Helpful Lady-Bot. The Helpful Lady-Bot is a merciless android monster with a warm, cheery voice who taunts you periodically. Her function is to interrupti the Herb Alpert waiting music with cheerful sadist comments like, "Did you know your question may be answered on our website? Go to www.hahahadiepunkthismeansyou dot com and click on..." And so on. 

But here is the problem. And allow me to put this in bold and capital letters for emphasis:

--> NO ONE HAS EVER CALLED UP WITH A

 QUESTION THAT CAN BE ANSWERED ON

THE WEBSITE. NO ONE. EVER. EVER. <-- b="">

Of course the Helpful Lady-Bot knows this; she just likes to toy with you. In Bot school she was the bully who took all the other androids' lunch money, then waved it over their heads trying to get them to grab it before yanking it away. (Talk about accomplishments: this she managed despite not existing.)

However, I emerged triumphant. On December 22, I succeeded - in a Christmas miracle the likes of which George Cukor would have killed to enshrine for posterity - in enrolling for health insurance. I reached an exceedingly competent and kind professional named Tanisha, who swiftly enrolled me in a plan despite the fact that her predecessors, on the odd occasion I had reached one, had failed to determine that I exist.* Of course I suspect these folks also regularly failed to chew and swallow correctly, but this is all water under the bridge now that I am (presumably) enrolled.

Obviously the moral of this story is don't give up on your dreams, or something like that.

Now clearly the foregoing has been addressed to those in pursuit of a goal. A goal might be anything: it could be enrolling for health insurance, but it could also be winning the World Cup, or winning the World Cup if you ever get off the phone with health insurance. Whereas this next part I would like to address to the goal-seeker's loved ones. Remember that your support is of the utmost importance to this person. That's why you should holler encouragement really, really loudly in their ears:

HELPFUL LADY-BOT: Did you know your question can also be answered on our website? Go to www. ...

YOUR LOVED ONES (in your ear): YOU CAN DO IT, BOB!!! YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!!

YOU: Can you pipe down, please? I can't hear.

YOUR LOVED ONES (louder, because you need more encouragement): GO, BOB!!!!!! YOU GOT THIS, BUDDY!!!!!! YOU GOT THIS!!!!! GO GO GO GO GO!!!!!!!

YOU: Look, I'm really touched, but could you...

INSURANCE REPRESENTATIVE (picking up after 3,706 hours): Good afternoon, New York State of Health. How can I assist you?

YOUR LOVED ONES: YEAH!!!!!! BOB!!!!!! MY MAN BOB!!!!!!!! YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!!!!!! ROCK IT, BOB!!!!!!! WORK IT, BABY!!!!!!!!! 

INSURANCE REPRESENTATIVE: Hello?

YOU: Shut up! Someone might answer! I need to hear!

YOUR LOVED ONES: BOB!!!!!!! BOB!!!!!! BOB!!!!!! YEAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

YOU: For the love of God, shut...

INSURANCE REPRESENTATIVE: Hello?

YOUR LOVED ONES: GIMME A "B"! GIMME AN "O"! GIMME A...

YOU (in tears): PLEASE!!

INSURANCE REPRESENTATIVE: *click*

But encouragement can also be a negative thing. I base this statement on a lethal encouragement incident I once saw with my own eyes.** I was at a figure skating competition, where a teenage figure skater named Charles was performing before a crowd of a few hundred spectators including, unfortunately, his own parents. Regrettably, the family had positioned themselves close to the boards, so that Charles, who would probably have preferred death by maggot, instead got the full onslaught of their affectionate encouragement. It was a sequence of events that went like clockwork: the family would send out an encouragement-beam, and instantly, Charles would fall. It went like this:

(Charles is skating; sets up for a jump)

FAMILY: Oh! OH! Here he goes! Here he... GOOOO CHARLES!

CHARLES: (WHUMP)

FAMILY: Ohhhhh! Go, Charles! It's OK! You can do it, buddy! You can do it! (Charles sets up for a jump.) You can-- whoaaa! Here he goes! Here he goes again! GOOOOO CHARLES!

CHARLES: (WHUMP)

FAMILY: Ohhhhh! Don't worry, Charles! Just a fluke! Ellie! Ellie, cheer for your brother!

LITTLE SISTER: GOOOOOO CHARLES!

(Charles falls while not even jumping)

Of course, knowing what young sibling relations are like, it is entirely possible his little sister had put a curse on him. But one way or another, my point is that encouragement can be a force for evil. By the end of the program Charles had fallen about 75 times and ended up placing 335th in the competition despite the fact that there were only 12 competitors. He was even beaten by the Zamboni driver and the head of the local skating association, who had spent the competition sitting in the bleachers scratching his personal region.*** So, as loved ones, you must use your own best judgment as to when to cheer and when to stop, unless of course you are a dum-dum, in which case there is very little I can do to help you, aside from suggesting a career OUTSIDE of the insurance hotline industry. Did you hear me? I said OUTSIDE. Here, lean your ear closer if you like. 

And to those who continue tirelessly chipping away at a long-held goal in 2014, I can only urge you to keep plugging. Keep your head up high and never give up. Unless, of course, you're trying to break into the New York theatre world, in which case I can only say to you, in all sincerity and from the deepest depths of my heart: get outta my way. 

* I admit I have my doubts.
** As opposed to with somebody else's eyes, which could potentially get you into trouble.
*** But then, his technique was flawless.

The Joy of Tech

Chalk it up to a talent for consistency if you like, but I've always been young. I'm going on a 26-year streak now so I predict the trend will go on indefinitely. But such perpetual youth is not free of pain and hardship. I speak - as you have no doubt guessed - of the lack of a decent smartphone.

Notice I say "decent smartphone," not "smartphone." This is because up till last month, I stood enmired in a 1 1/2-year codependent relationship with a smartphone that had clearly, in its youth, been emotionally wounded by a sadistic mother.*  The result was an amalgam of Tourette's, dementia, low battery, schizophrenia, night terrors and chronic dropped calls. I also eventually realized my phone was refusing to receive text messages people were sending me, and as we well know from helpful posters in bus stations, when your significant other won't let you talk to your friends, that's a sign of an unhealthy relationship. But I was in too deep to realize. (Remember I mentioned I am pretty young.)

This was all part of an inexorable cycle. First, I would threaten to replace my phone and/or flush it.** Then the phone would wail and whine at me to take it back, because THIS time would be DIFFERENT. Accusations flew back and forth; tears flowed; passionate embraces were exchanged, and finally we would have a long, gratifying round of make-up texting. Then everything would be okay for any a week.

Long story short, I finally saw the light and acquired a new phone, and I have never been happier. Gone are the bad old days of no connection and under-productivity; the new phone has ushered in a bold new era of constant connection and under-productivity at a much faster rate. Now I can verify, on the way to the subway, what celebrities are dead. I can avoid answering my email en route to my very own bathroom -- or someone else's bathroom, for that matter (although they often wonder who I  am, and what I am doing in there).

And let's not forget to talk about Swype. This is a delightful program performs the vital dual functions of allowing you to type misspelled words while getting smeary finger stains all over your screen. Why misspelled? Well, the smartphone is only so smart, which means much of the time your messages are somewhat compromised. For example, say you're trying to write the following:

Dear Stan,

I will be running a bit late. I look forward to seeing you shortly.

Sincerely,
Nicola McEldowney

Before Swype, you would have had to type those words letter by letter, and you would have run the very real risk of spelling most of them correctly. But thanks to the efficiency of Swype, your message will look something like this:

Dear Arab,

I will be rubbing a nub large. I look forward to seeing you shirtless.

Sincerely,
Bucks Microfiber***

See how handy it is? As a smug and entitled upper-middle-class white person, I heartily go on the record as saying everyone should have one. And I think it is fair to say that, if you don't get one, you're not a real person.

In any case, I love my new smartphone. I've had it for over a week now and our relationship has yet to turn to pure unalloyed crap, which is more than I can say for its predecessor, as well as a few other individuals. As a matter of fact, I think it may be "the one," but then God knows I've said THAT before.

But there is no need to dwell in such places right now. Now is the time to revel in my newfound ability to plumb the depths of BuzzFeed while riding a bus. Did I mention my capacity for under-productivity? It's at least as legendary as my talent for youth, and I dare say it probably has at least three times the staying power.



* I can't know, but I imagine she was a microwave.
** On which note, flushability would be a great feature in other kinds of partners, if you get my drift.
*** This is what my phone originally thought my name was. I think it would be a good stripper name, assuming (a) I decide to adopt a second career and (b) I don't want any clients.

Northern Exposure: An Introduction to the Bronx

Writing about geography holds a special place in my heart. This is because every time I do, I get irate comments from readers with severe issues and excessive spare time. "How DARE you suggest that Belgium and France are the same country?!!" they write. "I am APPALLED. On the other hand, what can you expect from someone who thinks the national animal of Kazakhstan is the chocolate bunny?" To which I reply: I NEVER said that! I said he was the prime minister. But choose to believe what you want, if it makes you happy.

Anyway, I do admit my grasp of the world is tenuous, which is why today I'm sticking close to home, with the following overview of:

~ THE BRONX ~

The Bronx was created many geological epochs ago, when a Cro-Magnon workman named Unghh, who still works on 231st St., took a really big rock and banged it down hard to see what he would squish. This resulted in the shifting of the tectonic plates of the Earth. The Bronx split off in one big glob ("Bronx" is Cro-Magnon for "glob") from Manhattan, leaving untold thousands of Cro-Magnons without immediate access to artisanal coffee. Needless to say, they died instantly. The exception was Unghh, who lived on other Cro-Magnons.

That's how the Bronx got to be so far north. Most people don't even realize it exists. I know this because I used to be a student at Columbia, where it is de rigueur never to go further than your dorm bathroom, and some people never even bother with this. Columbia students believe the northern boundary of the known universe is Harlem, which they vaguely know to be a place we should all care about deeply but never go to. Whereas Harlem residents are a little more broad-minded. They believe the Earth terminates with Washington Heights. I don't know what Washington Heights residents think, but here is a simplified diagram of my best guess:

TUNDRA

↓

WASHINGTON HEIGHTS

↓

HARLEM

↓

A BUNCH OF OBLIVIOUS SNOTS AT SOME SCHOOL

↓

GROUND ZERO

↓

FLORIDA

Well, I'm here to tell you that "tundra" is actually the Bronx. You probably don't know much about it because the Bronx doesn't have the best reputation. This is a shame, because every so often I need people to sublet my apartment and pay large amounts of money. So that's why I'm here: to stand up for my borough's somewhat crud-festooned integrity. 

How far has the Bronx come since the Cro-Magnon days? Well, I will tell you: now we have an iHop, and one of these days soon we are getting a T.J. Maxx, so just chew on that, why don't you. Even these days, pre-T.J. Maxx, commerce is strong here. I speak particularly of the "iPhone" truck down by the high school. This is a truck that sells "iPhones," if you get my drift. It also sells "batteries," "chargers," and many other items that attract a vast number of consumers, if you continue to get my drift. This is why on any given day, a long queue of high-schoolers wait outside, demonstrating their profound devotion to phone chargers.

You know what would be really funny? If a person actually went up to the iPhone Truck in hopes of purchasing, say, a charger. I assume this has never happened. Such is not the way your savvy New Yorker conducts his business transactions. Your savvy New Yorker entrusts his business to trusted corporations. He doesn't go throwing money around at places with nice-sounding names that are obvious huge fronts for crystal-meth operations, such as "iPhone Truck" or "Columbia University."*

Nevertheless my point is that the Bronx's economy, despite the turmoil of the Cro-Magnon era, stands strong. And what's more, the Bronx has the further advantage of having - I want to be very clear about the magnitude of this - a comical name. You can't find that just anywhere in NYC, at least not at these rent prices. (You can find it in Long Island. Check out the LIRR callboard at Penn Station and you'll be entertained for days by places with names like Yankywanker.)

Last of all, I should like to close today's geography lesson by dispelling the long-held notion that the Bronx is far from Manhattan. On the contrary, travel a mere 20 minutes, and you will be in a really unappetizing part of Manhattan. You'll want to come right back to the Bronx, which luckily is only a hop, skip and a jump away.

So to summarize, the advantages of the Bronx are as follows: excellent local commerce,  a funny name, and convenience to places you wouldn't want to go anyway. Have I made my case? I think so, and now if you'll excuse me, I have to purchase an iPhone charger. Don't forget to attend geography class next week, when we'll discuss the Staten Island Chocolate Bunny Rebellion of 1915. The chocolate bunny is the official borough animal.

* If you didn't know this, you were kidding yourself.

In Your Face

The other day, on the subway, I inadvertently smushed my handbag into some girl's face. She voiced her displeasure thusly: "You get your BAG outta my FACE."

You may sympathize with this reaction, particularly if you're the type who doesn't like handbags in your face. I, on the other hand, got mad, because I'm the type who doesn't like getting shoved.

Many might have crumpled before this show of aggression. However, I, an unrepentant Tough and Gritty New Yorker, was not about to back off. So I looked her squarely in her eye and I said  - and I want to stress this is a real thing I said -

"You COULD say EXCUSE ME. You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it. "

That's right.  

You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it. 

 All the bloodlust in the world, or at least the Bronx, coursing through my veins - and all I could manage was to sound like somebody's uppity granny. She should have slapped me around. I considered slapping me around. The words still replay in my brain daily, in all their gooky self-righteousness. You DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it, my brain squeals, on medical appoinments, at work, at dinner with friends. The shame is real.

What is to be done about this? Well, the ideal would be to go around with a mental repertoire of scathing retorts at the ready. But if you're anything like me, you can't remember scathing retorts.  So your best bet is to carry a handy list. Then you will have conversations like this:

PERSON ON TRAIN: You get your BAG outta my FACE.
YOU: (Stand there blankly for a moment, because you remember faintly, back in some dark recess of your mind, that this is your cue to do something. You just can't remember WHAT. So, stalling for time, you reply as follows.)
Oh YEAH? ... YEAH? Well...
(Suddenly it dawns on you, and you fumble around for your list.)
Hang on a second.  
(You dig madly through your bag, throwing things every which way: a lipstick, a wad of receipts, a coupon for Chock Full o' Nuts-brand coffee, etc. Finally you locate the list of witty retorts.
A-HA! Here we go! Well, uh...
(You stare at the list.)
Um. I'm sorry. Can you start over?
PERSON ON TRAIN (having forgotten the whole affair): Huh?
YOU: Um, well, I mean, we've kind of lost momentum. Can you say it again?
PERSON ON TRAIN:  Say what again?
YOU: "Get your bag outta my face."
PERSON ON TRAIN (deeply affronted): My bag isn't IN your face.
YOU: No, no, no. "GET YOUR bag OUTTA MY face."
PERSON ON TRAIN: (shoots you at close range)

Naturally any thinking court would rule this a justifiable homicide. So now technically I've forgotten what my original point was, if I had one. But I do want to close, on this Thanksgiving, by offering this heartfelt counsel to all my brethren, human and train-travelers alike: don't shove people, because shoving makes enemies. Then the shoved enemy will write a totally anonymous blog entry about you that you'll never see, and boy will YOU be sorry. So be a lover, not a shover. OK?

And if you disagree with me, fine. But you DON'T HAVE to be RUDE about it.

 

Animal, Vegetable or Mayoral?

Every so often, I decide it would be fun to put enormous amounts of stuff in a suitcase and lug it between Maine and New York at considerable expense. This is just one example of how human beings are criminally insane compared to animals. I cite as scientific evidence my cat, Danny, whose undertakings differ from mine as follows:

EXAMPLE 1:
Me: Lug enormous amount of stuff from Maine to New York at considerable expense
Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master.

EXAMPLE 2:
Me: Go to meetings.
Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master.

EXAMPLE 3:

Me: Attend professional "networking" events.

Danny: Sit on couch. Occasionally lick self. Communicate with unseen Zen master. 

EXAMPLE 4:

Me: Attempt to socialize with the opposite sex.

Danny: Get neutered at a young age.

I think the animal advantage is clear here, which is why it baffles me that we keep selecting humans for - to take just one example - high office, when we could instead have, say, Labrador retrievers. Sure, there would be enormous amounts of butt-sniffing, and periodic humping orgies, but in other ways the government would be very different from how it is right now. For example, Congress would frequently be adjourned for a rousing round of Fetch.

What I'm getting around to here is - obviously - the impending New York City mayoral race. Right now we have two candidates, Bill de Blasio and Joe Lhota, both of whom are widely suspected to be humans. This would appear to be a classic case of speciesism. That's why I'm urging you, my fellow voters - New Yorkers and otherwise (hey, why not?) - to write in an animal as an alternative candidate for mayor. Of course you don't get to choose just any animal. No, it must be an indigenous animal current with the Concerns of the People of New York. That's why I've taken the liberty of narrowing it down to the following three:

1. A cockroach named "Roscoe," formerly of my building in the Bronx, at least until my roommate and I - I admit to this - actually caught him in a cup and set him free outside, because we lack the moral strength that would allow most thinking persons to stomp him to a stain. Who knows; perhaps as soon as Roscoe was released, he was squooshed by another enterprising foot. But more likely he is out there happily spreading disease to cute children. Assuming Roscoe lives, he is on my short list.

- ADVANTAGE #1: Stalwart citizen of the Bronx; of sufficient mass to carry his own personal Bronx ZIP code.

- ADVANTAGE #2: Carries slightly less bacteria than Anthony Weiner.

2. The rat I once saw scampering around in the tastefully arranged garden square outside of Bergdorf Goodman. On the other hand, given its real estate, this individual is probably a Republican. So forget it.

3. A small, yappy, vicious dog such as is found in the dog runs of Riverside Park, when it is not being casually consumed by German Shepherds as an hors-d'oeuvre. I'm suggesting these dogs because they never get a chance to shine. Granted, this is because they are basically little hateful walking wads of hair, fangs, poop and evil. But these qualities are of great advantage to a mayor.

- ADVANTAGE #1: These dogs are invariably owned either by Paris Hilton or elderly ladies named Edna, which means that - presuming the owner were appointed city energy czar, and evil could somehow be harnessed for "green" energy - we'd have enough energy to power all Brooklyn, or one Trump bathroom.

Okay. Let's get ready to cast our primary votes! Think carefully, now. Ready?

TICKA-TICKA-TICKA-TICKA

Good job! I've tabulated the votes, and here's how the city voted, borough-by-borough:

BRONX: Too pissed off at you, personally, to vote; ask again later; will still be too pissed off later.

BROOKLYN: Recused itself. Thinks it remembers hearing that all three animals were involved in a non-fair-trade coffee enterprise awhile back.

QUEENS: A nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there.

STATEN ISLAND: Unnecessary.

MANHATTAN: 13% for the dog; 15% for the cockroach; 9% for the Bergdorf Goodman rat; 25% remind us it's all Bush's fault; and the remaining 38% say HEY! WHADDAYA LOOKIN' AT??!! YOU WANT ME T' TEAR YOU A NEW ONE?!! I'MA RIP YOUR FACE OFF'N USE IT AS A POTHOLDER! STANCLEARADA CLOSIN' DOORS! I SAID STANCLEARADA CLOSIN' DOORS, #@$!%&-HOLE!!! HAVE A NICE DAY. OH YEAH? YOU 'N WHAT ARMY? And meanwhile, the one remaining resident, loveable mensch Milton A. Frumpklein of Chelsea, says shyly that he knows of a really good place to get bagels.

Personally, I think - and I know you were wondering - that Roscoe, the cockroach, is the obvious future of the city. But you may disagree with me, and in that case, if you think I give a rat's ass, that would be very interesting. One way or another, I look forward to seeing how this city decides. Say what you will about our system of democracy; it always brings a tear to my eye. And just wait'll I get into what they do in France.