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David Knows What’s Up: Park Slope Stakeout

August 30, 2010

David Knows What’s Up: Park Slope Stakeout

By David Marchese

Normally, Park Slope is pretty laid back. I give the baby-pushing Momaroos a wide berth, I don’t make noise about digging Mickey D’s vanilla cones over boysenberry co-op ice cream, and everyone gets along just fine. Not anymore. Some serious stuff is about to go down. Because somewhere, hiding like a weasel behind book drives, cutesy blogs, and defensible politics, is a two-bit thief.

I get the New York Times Weekender package. It’s convenient, and I’m still scoring a student rate even though I graduated four years ago. Or, that’s what I used to get till some sticky finger scumbag started pilfering my property. Imagine you’re me: You wake up on a Saturday morning after a crazy techno-rave rainbow night of raging till dawn with NYC’s sharpest (or staying home and reading an obscure novel about urban male loneliness), you roll out of bed and do your daily 5 to 12 push-ups, throw on a rad rock t-shirt and some mad comfortable boxies, and walk down a flight of stairs to get your paper. You’re practically backflipping down the steps, that’s how excited you are to be moments away from schooling the crossword and picking up some mucho importantay infotainment. You open the door. You look down. You look left. You look right. What’s yours is not yours. What you’ve paid for has not been delivered. And some turdburger who you just know — you just know! — has at some point gravely uttered the words “in the shadow of the Atlantic Yards project” has straight up stolen your paper.

I asked the Times to help. They said they could put a sticker with my name on it on the plastic bag that the paper comes in. They never did, but I’m fine with that. Any OG knows you don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.
(While we’re on the topic, I’ve asked the Times to replace my missing paper on multiple occasions. They’ve never done it. Step up, Sulzburger.)

I thought about going to the police. I thought twice, and figured the Five-0 had better things to do.
Bad boy bad boy whatcha gonna do? Simple. Stakeout. I’ll mainline some diet Red Bulls, stay up all night, and lay in wait for the pantywaist that’s taking my Times. Then the two of us gon’ tango. And when it comes to the tango, I’m cash.

I hope you’re reading this, pantywaist. No one crosses the D-Man twice. I guess technically you already did, but I’m not counting that because you didn’t know I was sore about the situation. You might’ve thought I didn’t care.
I care big time, bro.

Time to buy rear view mirrors for your stupid face so you can watch your back.
Boo!

Imagine that times a thousand, pantywaist.

(And seriously New York Times, you need to be much more diligent about responding to subscribers’ requests for replacement papers. That’s just bad customer service.)

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