Some people say that when it got cold enough,
people from Brooklyn would want
to walk across the Hudson.
But those same people are also
probably really proud of my dad,
who found a way to get this very big TV
In the back of his car—don’t worry,
he’s going to tell you all about it.
I survived Zuccotti Park,
and alls I gots was this stinking falafel.
My falafel isn’t all that unlike Mike’s
falafel—it’s just that Mike is wearing skinnier
jeans, and that my falafel is popular with
students of the Stern Business School.
Why can’t Robert tell the difference
between wall art and wasabi nuts?
Why can’t anyone get these robotic butterflies
to shut up and stop living already?
Why can’t the revolution be about the
chicks, man, and yeah, what’s all this
hublub about non-fat milk?
Everyone at the open mic is a fucking comedian, and
everyone who pooped in the port-a-potty is fucking beautiful—
not the beauty that Steffy is always on my case about,
but real beauty in real people, like when my dog
and his stupid face are squinting at the sun.
Does that make sense? Are you sure
you meant to invite me to this thing?
