Hey New York! How’s the frigid bitch weather? Oh,... -

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Ask me shit! About the author(s): MjH grew up in the suburbs of Encino, CA, born into a family of hilarious Jews. His mother, a witty New Yorker with a sharp tongue, set the bar pretty high in terms of what he looks for in a wife/Jewess.

Forever wearing glasses and on the hunt for Jewish cunt, our man wants you to know that he once schtupped a dame at DIVE! in Century City.

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Hey New York! How’s the frigid bitch weather? Oh, you mean you don’t want to go to Papaya King in this humid Winter you’re having? What do you mean nobody visits the MoMa, the Chrysler Building, or The Vampire State Building due to the inclement weather? Just remember one thing when you are talking about how fucking radical your (read: NEW YORK) city is: you have to wait 9 months for warm (read: putridly, stinkin’ hot) weather. Meanwhile, I’m skinny-dipping with Bar Rafaeli in February. Just laughin’ at ya’all. I don’t care how many bike messengers sell weed. Call me old fashioned, but like Sanka Coffee, I like getting my weed mano-a-mano: from the man.  I don’t mind waitin’ for him either. Also, my weed is much better and doesn’t come in a stupid plastic see-through box that isn’t really an eighth.  Eighth = 3.5 grams. Lemme know when the line shortens up at Shake Shack.  I wanna titmilkshake a bitch. (Author’s Note: Cool Runnings is way better than the Olympics)

Hey New York! How’s the frigid bitch weather? Oh, you mean you don’t want to go to Papaya King in this humid Winter you’re having?

What do you mean nobody visits the MoMa, the Chrysler Building, or The Vampire State Building due to the inclement weather?

Just remember one thing when you are talking about how fucking radical your (read: NEW YORK) city is: you have to wait 9 months for warm (read: putridly, stinkin’ hot) weather. Meanwhile, I’m skinny-dipping with Bar Rafaeli in February. Just laughin’ at ya’all. I don’t care how many bike messengers sell weed. Call me old fashioned, but like Sanka Coffee, I like getting my weed mano-a-mano: from the man.  I don’t mind waitin’ for him either. Also, my weed is much better and doesn’t come in a stupid plastic see-through box that isn’t really an eighth.  Eighth = 3.5 grams.

Lemme know when the line shortens up at Shake Shack.  I wanna titmilkshake a bitch.

(Author’s Note: Cool Runnings is way better than the Olympics)


February 26
new york cool runnings
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