Paul Leone Has Not Killed a Man

Since I moved to the East Village I’ve been forced to take the L train crosstown every morning. It’s only four stops, and less than 10 minutes, but the cost those 600 seconds reap from my soul is immeasurable.

First of all the train is like a who’s who of hipster cliches. Plaid shirts, skinny jeans so tight they require lubricant to get on, terrible peircings, bad hipster hair, gawdy use of the color purple, unattractive tattoos – it’s hipster-overload all designed to enrage the sensibilities and inflame the senses.

Considering the train gets packed so tight that they need a hydraulic press to fit everyone in I’m typically jammed against some chick with pink hair that was obviously not loved properly (or possibly too much) by her father and has rebelled against him and the Ivy League education he paid for by sucking off guitar players from terrible indie bands and living in an apartment he pays for in Williamsburg. I hate that girl. In fact on any given train I hate 75% of the people that get on before Union Square.

But honestly, my hatred for the Hipster will need to wait for another day, because as intolerable a group of human beings they are there’s actually worse things going down on the L that needs to be discussed: the people who are incapable of properly filling space to maximize the amount of people who can get on the train.

I fucking hate these assholes.

It’s simple geometry man! Turn a little to the left, take a step to the right, move forward a little, do anything and you can fit like 7 more people in the car, but these ass clowns either don’t notice or don’t care. They just stand there with a dumb look on their dumb face and act dumb. It’s infuriating. And you’re never close enough to tell them they’re a jerk off because you’re smashed against the door trying to use your finger tip to hold yourself steady enough that you’re not going to fall over when the fuck head driving the train decides to punch it as hard as possible sending the train lurching forward uncontrollably.

When it’s a tourist I almost understand. They’re too busy trying to move their ridiculously oversized camera out of the way so they can stare at a giant unfolded map like they’re Vasco da fucking Gama. They don’t have the time to be courteous. But New Yorkers, guys, lets work a little harder at this so no one has to feel my wrath. Thanks.

I have disease. An affliction. A problem. It’s March Madness, and I’m mad. Like Crazy. Woohooo. Today is the happiest day of my life. I’m already smiling. I may not stop smiling. I’m in glee. YAY! I can’t think of a single day I love more – and from the first tip at 12:00 to the point where they play One Shining Moment after the final life is good. YAY!

In honor of this happy time, Paul Leone will be declaring an armistice for te next month. No blood shall fall between today and the finals. In this way Paul Leone is a giving man.

Your welcome.

YAY!

I currently live in Alphabet City in New York’s East Village, which has traditionally been less than the best neighborhood in the the NYC.  Back in the day the area was over run by AIDs infested, drug dealing, hookers with guns, that had tattoos of anchors on their brawny forearms. At this point pretty much all of Manhattan is completely gentrified including even the parts where you used to be able to savagely beat nuns at will – such as my block. But that doesn’t mean the savage element doesn’t roam the very streets that I stroll through each night.

So last night I’m getting home at 12am ish, strolling along, listening to my Blackberry because my iPod is dead, and I pass a couple of nogoodniks. I don’t really think about it until one of them does the fake stutter step to me move as if he wants to start something, (would be a pretty dumb move considering in latino circles I’m known as “El Hombre del Fuerte”), and then his friend called me whitey.

My first reaction to all this was laughter – I mean whitey? Really? He had this mock incredulism in his voice that was almost authentic – like how dare this white folk be in my neighborhood. But after I looked at them and laughed it was pretty much over.

I’m not sure if they thought it was funny that I thought it was funny. Like they appriciated my keen sense of humor and manly good looks? Or if they didn’t even notice that I was laughing at them and thought I was just walking away? Either way that fucker may die by my hand by the time I move away, because I’m not above dressing like a ninja and going loco on mi amigos cabasa if you know what I’m jiving buddy. So if you’re reading this it may already be too late – foosh, ha, swooo haaaaaaa (and other ninjaish sounds.)

If this site is founded on a single premise it’s unquestionably the fact that I  hate douche bags. All douche bags. I hate the hipster douche bags on the L train every morning. I hate the douches at the post office for losing my package the other day. I hate the douche bags in the douchey film crew that’s set up filming god knows what outside my apartment right now (hopefully a high budget snuff porn.) But of all the douches in this entire douchity douche bag town there is no single douche bag that needs to be driven off a gorge more than the Goose Douche.

We all know of the Goose Douche. We’ve seen them in our bars, bumped into them at the liquor store, laughed at pictures of them on the interweb. There is so much I can say about why I hate them, so much so that I was thrilled to find they had their own site. www.douchebagslovegreygoose.com.

One day we will be close enough to feel the pungent stench of their Gucci Blue stinging our nostrils. we will be amongst the Goose Douche. And we will end their douchery. Until then you should check out this dude’s page.

Not only die but die slow and painful deaths. Or maybe really quick deaths to counter their leisurely nature? I’m not sure, but I can hardly use words to describe the deep and bitter disdain my soul holds towards people with gentle and methodical gaits.

And there’s no getting away from them. New York City is the unofficial slow walking capital of the world. You always hear how New Yorkers talk fast and move fast, but I’ve seen road kill move faster than the people I encounter on a daily basis. Unless you’re dead, almost dead, a member of the undead, or carrying a dead person, you should be able to manage at least 3.5 MPH. Even brain eating zombies move that fast (technically zombie walking pace is about 1.5 MPH.)

And it’s not just zombies, tourists, and zombie tourists – trust me, my disdain of the tourist will require several posts filled with colorful language and fiery hate speech. My problems are with the average New Yorker who has zero urgency in what they’re doing, and in the process won’t stay out of my fucking way.

You see, slow walkers are like tops – the slower they go the more they start to wobble. A little leffffffffft. And then they drift back to the righttttttttt. Then they slow downnnnnnnnn, then right, and then slowly to the left, and then they look up at something, and… By this point I’ve been behind this tard for three and a half minutes dancing around like I’m a backup dancer of the  “Please Hammer Don’t Hurt Em Tour”.

I seriously can’t take it. Why must I be punished for my rapid and steady walking style? Why must I dance through crowds in the subway terminals like I’m Barry-fucking-Sanders? Why must I take on the sins of this ungodly menace?

And don’t even get me started on stairs. I could build stairs faster than most of these people can get up them.

But by far the most amazing thing about the slow walkers is their absolutely infuriating ability to walk just far enough away from a wall to give the impression that you can slip by them on the outside, while staying just close enough so you can’t. It’s  uncanny. It’s like a sixth sense of stupid.

Long ago I was given advice on how to walk the streets of New York, and it was as true than as it is now: Keep your head down, walk fast, and stay right. I just hope the word gets out before I have to break the streak on one of these mother fuckers with a viking battle axe or 747.

Another weekend down and no is is dead. I didn’t even seriously maim anyone. Aces.

Just for giggles and Schlitz I figured I’d give a quick top 10 countdown of the people most worthy of feeling my wrath.

1. Dave Matthews

2. Dr. Kadlecek (my 8th grade administrator)

3. Rosie O’Donnell

4. Gwyneth Paltrow (read this and tell me you don’t agree that someone needs to take her out.)

5. The Stingray who got Steve Irwin (Not a person and most likely already dead but fuck that aquatic hitman.)

Actually, right now that’s all I’ve got. Not feeling very vengful at all. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll be more full of veng – or fullness. Either way someone must go down.

Valid question chums, and the counter point has been dually noted. I think I can sum this up simply by countering that question with an even dumber one – why not? This particular site will be about all the people I wish a violent death to but have yet to have a chance to finish off. Will I eventually? Well I certainly hope so, but until then consider this a site for wishful thinking – and blood curdling vengeance.

Check back if you get a chance, or you could always not check and always wonder if you’re next? Choice is yours.