Congratulations on Showing Off Your Dick in Those Lime Green Tights!

There are two ways to tell everyone you live in New York and can’t survive anywhere else.  One of those ways is to go from shop to shop, loudly talking to anyone who will hear about how things in that place are different from things in New York.  This is pretty awful.

You can also go with your route: you can wear incredibly bright, tight tights that show off your junk.

“Oh god,” people on the street will moan.

“I guess maybe he lives in New York?” the other people on the street will say with a shrug, to no one’s real satisfaction.

“I can see the outline of his dick,” a precocious child will announce to an adult who pulls her along, both to avoid the conversation that follows such a statement (re: why is that man showing me the outline of his dick mommy?) and to shield her child from sustained exposure to your dick, so intensely visible in those lime green tights.

When you walk down the street everyone will know just who you are and where you’re from.  They’ll know exactly what you’re about.  They’ll avoid eye contact with you to the point of personal risk.

It’ll be like you’re projecting a small field of New York around yourself each day: a region of space and time where social skills, codes of conduct and basic human decency all falls away and you find yourself standing on a street corner, alone in a crowd, pretending all at once to be invisible, not to see anyone else, while craving their attention all the same.

Congratulations on Showing Off Your Dick in Those Lime Green Tights!

Congratulations Bacteria!

The pole where you live is constantly being invaded by hands.  Dozens upon dozens of hands, hundreds really, groping it and grappling it and fucking with you and your family and your land.  Today’s the day you strike back.

Today you’re going to, through several generations of meiosis, evolve a reflex that allows you and your offspring to aggressively overcome white blood cells and essentially attack key organs in the human body, effectively consuming them through an internal transmission within the vascular system of your victims.  All they’ll need to do is touch their mouth, nose or eyes after touching your pole and then BAM!  Disease will become a thing.

Within a week, half of new York will be infected.  Within two weeks, a quarter of those infected will be dead.  Within a month, the media will begin telling everyone in the world that New York is under the thrall of “pole fever.”  People will chuckle, but a significant portion of the city that never sleeps will, by this point, be dead because of you and your offspring.

You’ll be more or less dealt within in about three months when a cocktail of antibiotics finally cracks your unique code and annihilates you completely, but by that time you’ll have killed well over four million people in a matter of months.  And yet you still won’t have been the least pleasant thing about riding the subway in New York.

Congratulations Bacteria!