Posts Tagged ‘mayor bloomberg’

HOW THE GRINCH BANNED SODA

Sunday, April 28th, 2013

 

Many folks

Down in New York

Liked soda a lot…

 But the Grinch

 Who was Mayor

 Did NOT!

 

The Grinch hated soda! All kinds of flavors

 Now please don’t ask why.  Looked at all with disfavor!

It could be his palate and tastes were urbane

It could be perhaps that he just drank champagne.

 But I think the most likely reason of all

Was because, as a man well, the Mayor was small.

 

 

But

Whatever the reason,

His height or his wealth

He was too-too concerned with everyone’s health.

Making speeches and statements, he tried best he could

 To convince New Yorkers this was for their own good.

No more soda or smoking or transfats or fun.  

An era of free choice and freedom was done.

 

“But they’re drinking their sodas,” he snarled with a sneer

They won’t have a chance to at this time next year!

If it’s seventeen ounces of Fanta or Pepsi

They’ll have to be happy with unsweetened Nestea.

 

 

For

Come next year, he knew…

He would have his own way

Not over cranberry juice or OJ

Nor coffee nor liquor nor hot NesCafe

But one day he would!  HAVE HIS WAY!  HAVE HIS WAY!

 

 

Why, look at the streets where the traffic once flourished,

There are bikes!  There are bikes!

There are bikes!

                                     BIKES!

                                                  BIKES!

                                                            BIKES!

 

They would ride them in bike lanes painted brand-new!

They would ride them on sidewalks, slam into you!

 

And THEN

They’d do something

He liked most of all

They’d ride them through all those pedestrian malls!

 

They’d ride them down Lexington, up Park Avenue

They’d ride where they wanted with no thought of you!

 

 They’d ride!  And they’d ride!

AND they’d RIDE!  RIDE! RIDE!  RIDE!

 Through red lights, on sidewalks, against STOP! Signs too! 

And the Grinch who was Mayor, he hadn’t a clue

“But they’ll be better off just as soon as I’m through”

Said the Grinch who was Mayor who knew…

                                                            …thought HE!

 

 

For he had an idea!

 

A brilliant idea!

The MAYOR

HAD A FABULOUS EVIL IDEA!

 “I know just what to do!” he laughed to himself

Quite a huge idea from one tall as an elf!

“They whine and complain, it’s all so hard to take.

How will they respond when l ban chocolate cake?”

 

“I will ban all the chocolate

I know that I can!

Chocolate truffles and soufflés, cashews and pecans,

But I won’t stop at that,”

The short mayor said

“I’ll ban brownies and cookies and donuts and bread.”

 

Then he called Janette Sudik-Khan, Transportation head,

And said “Stop riding your bike, we’ve got work ahead!

THEN

He called his daughter

The equestrian one

And said, “Hold your horses!

There’s much to be done!”

“But, Daddy, dear Daddy,

“I don’t mean to whine,

 But my schedule is filled

With all things equine.”

Then I’ll have to rely on one person — that’s me!

And not leave in the hands of petit-bourgoursie

 I will ban all these sweets by Mayoral Decree!

 

There’ll be no chocolate squares or chocolate parfaits

No more Three Musketeers, nary one Milky Way!

Take all Hershey Kisses and kiss them adieu

So long, Snickers Bars, Almond Joys, Milk Duds too!

And premium chocolates, they haven’t a chance

Don’t care if they’re imported from  Belgium or France

And those dreadful strawberries dipped in chocolate

And those pretzels and raisins and rest of that rot!

 

 

And that white chocolate too, ‘cause you can’t fool the Mayor

Small like Paul Simon but still I’m a playa!

Chocolate Santas! Chanukah coins! Easter bunnies too!

Chocolate milk, chocolate pudding! Chocolate fondue!

No more Rocky Road ice cream or mint chocolate chip

I just love a benevolent dictatorship!

My powers are limitless in the Big Apple

And soon all you’ll be drinking is Diet Peach Snapple

I love making unilateral moves in this town

There’ll be no more chocolate,  I’ll ban all foods brown!

That’s right!  I will do it!  Don’t believe me?  Just you wait!

Remember Alexander? Well,  I’m Bloomberg the Great!

 No more hamburger, roast beef or baked potatoes!

No brown gravy, no mushrooms, no more Cheerios!

You’ll never eat brown rice or ribs or whole oats!

Say bye-bye to pumpernickel bread and groats!

 “But why, Mayor Bloomberg, do something so silly?”

 Asked Zooey and Chloe and Jacob and Billy,

 “Why?” asked their parents, “our kids are entitled

 “It’s their wants and desires that are key, that are vital!”

 We loved you Mike Bloomberg, our first three-term mayor

 We knew you’d protect us and the ozone layer

 You wear crewneck sweaters in Grade A cashmere

And agreed to be Mayor for one buck a year!

Why must you tell us what is good and what’s not?

Note:  that arrogant manner doesn’t help you a lot.

We sense that you come to us with no ill intent

Have your aides pointed out your bad Spanish accent?

 

What’s that noise? groused the Mayor I can’t help but hear

So he stopped.  And put his small hand to his small ear.

“I can see a crowd forming,” the Mayor remarked

“Hope it’s not filthy hipsters from Zucotti Park!”

 Every person in New York, the rich and the poor

Were there to say, “Enough, Mike!  Please! No more!

Some were eating spelt bread, some were drinking blue juice

Mayor Bloomberg’s “suggestions” were being refused!

 You can deal with the unions, the teachers and cops

Attend Broadway openings, the hits and the flops

Bring commerce to New York, more jobs and more tourists

 

And on your own time you can save the rain forest

The Mayor just grimaced, pressed his face to the pane.

Was perplexed, so confused: who are they to complain?

 I only wanted what was best for them all

Have you seen what I’ve done with pedestrian malls?

 And what happened then?

Well, the Mayor just grumbled, then smiled to himself,

These New Yorkers don’t know what is good for themselves

They need me, they know it, I don’t mean to annoy

I like being in charge, what’s not to enjoy?

 

Take back your brown food, have a chocolate bar

 Perhaps you are right and I’ve gone way too far

 No more control freak, do whatever you want,

 It’s time for Mike Bloomberg to be nonchalant

 I will live and let live and try not to judge

 I won’t be bitter, I won’t hold a grudge

 You can drink all your sweet drinks and eat chocolate fudge!

 And with that…

 

 The Grinch who was Mayor took off for D.C.

 With only four years, much to do, much to see

 “Time to change my demeanor, never meant to be mean”

 “I can compromise surely, find the “in between”

Bloomberg/Sudik-Khan in 2016!

 

I can ban DuPont Circle, maybe make it a square

 Close the Capital Steps, institute BloombergCare

 Turn the National Mall to a pedestrian space

 Give the Lincoln Memorial a handsomer face

 

Get those pandas from China to try and slim down

 Move the White House to more desirable Georgetown

 Add bike lanes to the Beltway, maybe have a marathon

 Build a Mike Bloomberg wing at the Smithsonian

 

I will have so many things to change and see to

 I just love politics – there’s soooooo much to do!

 

BECAUSE I SAID SO!

Friday, March 22nd, 2013

Dear New York Mayor Shorty-Pants,

 

Well, cranky, obstinate I-know-what’s-better-for-you-than-you-do Michael Bloomberg – there’s only one word I can think of that expresses how I (and millions more) feel about the ban on your soda ban – na na na na na. I know how important control is for you short men.  And, for a while there, it looked like you were winning the battle.   I know you hate losing and that you’ll challenge the brilliant and fair-minded decision of the judge who overturned your arbitrary I-can-so-I-will brand of law.  But for now you are just going to have to just cry into your empty Big Gulp cup.

 

 

Well, cranky, obstinate I-know-what’s-better-for-you-than-you-do Michael Bloomberg – there’s only one word I can think of that expresses how I (and millions more) feel about the ban on your soda ban – na na na na na. I know how important control is for you short men.  And, for a while there, it looked like you were winning the battle.   I know you hate losing and that you’ll challenge the brilliant and fair-minded decision of the judge who overturned your arbitrary I-can-so-I-will brand of law.  But for now you are just going to have to just cry into your empty Big Gulp cup.

 

No, Mike – I don’t drink sweet soda or Yoo-Hoo or sweet tea or Mountain Dew or Fanta Grape.  Or Orange.  It’s just when someone tells me, a mature woman, what I may and may not do, I have a problem.  I already had a mommy and daddy, I didn’t like it when they told me what to do and I was in their will.  So why would I listen to you?   You weren’t a bad mayor the first two terms.  But then someone in your administration apparently slipped Quaaludes into the City Council coffee urn, and here we are.  There’s a reason it’s called a “Napoleonic Complex.”

 

Cherry-picking what people can and can’t do takes us down a slippery slope.  Maybe I don’t want to pay the healthcare bill of drunks with corroded livers.  Why don’t you outlaw booze?  Ooops – 1920 through 1933.  What lesson can we take from this?  Be it eating cans of Crisco

 

or drinking 4,000 bottles of Jim Beam – same answer you gave your parents when you were 12 and they asked, “Why don’t you get a haircut?” “It’s a free country!”

 

Come December this year, it’s over for you so, why not just chill for the next few months?  Or — you could double-down on being Alpha Daddy Mayor.  Dilemma – nine months and so many things to ban.  Allow me to help by consolidating a “To Do” list for you.  This way, you can continue to increase your carbon footprint by jetting down to Bermuda every weekend…

 

 

STREET FAIRS –  A health hazard that assaults each of my five senses from May through October every year.  From the YUPPIE parents who have no problem crashing their double-stroller into my ankle as they tell their captive-audience twin toddlers, “Look Abigail and Aiden! This is cobblestone.  Cobblestone is derived from the old English word ‘cob,’ and is a generic for any stone having dimensions between 2.5–10 inches…” (just wait till those kids learn how to say, “Shut the fuck up, Mom and Dad!”), to the sticky-smelling pina coladas, from people buying down-alternative pillows and tube socks in the middle of the gutter to those same Peruvian ponchos that seem to travel from fair to fair, like the clothing equivalent of funnel cakes.

What if a car careens into the crowd?  What if a funnel-cake fryer tips over and the hot oil spills on someone?  What if it rains and someone gets a cold?  I’m afraid I’ll have to pay for their healthcare. Nope.  Sorry. Street fairs – out.

 

JELLO MOLDS A Marlboro Light or that quivering lime goo with fruit somehow magically suspended in it?  Got a match?

 

PAYARD’S FRENCH BAKERY, MAISON KAYSER AND OTHER PATISSERIES YOU MIGHT LIKE TO INDULGE IN – Maybe some fat wealthy people should stop stuffing their faces with macarons and Napoleons.  And even if they’re not fat, doesn’t mean their cholesterol isn’t 315.  Their money could be in tax shelters and I might have to pay for their insulin.  Au revoir, expensive baked goods.  You’re no healthier than a Twinkie, just less uniform and tres more expensive.

 

 

FRUIT/VEGETABLE CARTS – Oh, an avocado is sooooo much more healthy than a muffin?   Really?  I’m thinking I’m healthier eating a gallon of hermetically sealed Kozy Shack Rice Pudding than grapes handled by some green market vendor, whose nails are so filthy it looks like he actually planted and picked the fruit himself.  He picked something.  That I’m sure of.

 

YOUR HORRENDOUS SPANISH ACCENT – It hurts my ears as well as the pride of all of my Latino friends. “Beeeewennosss Diazzzz, citizens de Nuweeeyva Yorkayyy!.  I’d rather not know that the subways and schools are closed because of a blizzard than hear your monotone “Toedoz loews aysquealas y el subwayo aystanies serahdoz hoy today.”    Por favor, Senor Mayorcallate!  Su acento español está prohibido y mis oídos interno está sangrando!

 

 

THE HAMPTONS – I know.  Technically, you’re not Mayor of the Hamptons, but in your head, you and not James Cameron, is really The King of the World and the world, as you know, includes Amagansett and Quogue.  Shops named “Blue and Cream,” and “Crazy Monkey” are indulgent and nauseating.  The Hampton Jitney makes a right-hand turn from the left lane on 40th and Lex, and emits enough carbon monoxide to suck the oxygen supply out of Yankee Stadium.  The fillers and “refreshers” used by every woman over the age of 23 can’t be good for the environment.  75-year-old men, no matter how rich they are, should not be playing tennis.

Why should I pay for an angiogram and triple bypass because an old guy forgot to breathe while volleying?   Hamptons.  Beach it.

 

 

METS FANSFor no other reason than they have that human baseball-with-arms-and-legs Mr. Met mascot, the New York Mets should follow their predecessors, The Brooklyn Dodgers, and move to Los Angeles.

 

EQUESTRIAN AS REAL JOB   This isn’t England in the 14th century.  There are no squires or millers or friars or knights.  There’s no Duchy of Bloomberg, unless the island of Bermuda counts.  When the unemployment rate in the country has hovered at about 8% the past five years, and your idea of “solution” is having architects crank out blueprints for apartments the size of the Polly Pocket Castle for none of your relatives to live in, your daughter Georgina is hereby banned from identifying herself as an equestrian at cocktail parties, in online dating services, on job applications.  Even Christopher Reeve didn’t have enough money to pay for his medical bills and he was SUPERMAN, for god’s sake.  When “equestrians” break bones and spinal columns, I’m afraid I’ll have to pay.  And I’d rather not.

 

 

EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL  – I know. A Mediterranean diet is supposed to be healthy.  But we’re talking about people who can’t control themselves, people who might not be satisfied with, let’s say, 16 ounces of extra virgin olive oil.  What if some New Yorker wants to walk into Food Emporium, buy 25 ounces of Colavita Olive Oil and half a gallon of whole milk and blend up an EVOO Milk Shake?   That’s 8,600 calories for the oil, 9,000 for the milk.  Likely?  Maybe not.  But if we can save even one life, we are heroes, are we not?

 

 

DUANE READE DRUG STORES There are more Duane Reade drugstores in New York than there are parking meters.  Ooops – you banned those too…  There are so many, it makes me dizzy.  Whatever goes out of business, it’s replaced by a Duane Reade drugstore.  They’re reproduced faster than kids in that Duggar family on TLC.  It’s like Mickey Mouse in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”  They sell prescription drugs. They also sell Cheez Balls.  They sell aspirin and Witch Hazel and Band Aids.  They also sell French Onion (artificially flavored) Sun Chips.  They sell gauze and rubbing alcohol.  They also sell Healthy Choice Salisbury Steak.   When the same store sells both that shampoo/conditioner that comes in one bottle and  “Good and Delish Penne Alla Vodka with Grilled Chicken,” both those with dirty hair and those who aren’t in the mood for salmonella any time soon should be wary.

You’ll have to close down just about everything in these stores except the pharmacy and the aisle that sells cotton balls.

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AWWWW….YOUR MARATHON’S BEEN CANCELLED….WAH WAH WAH….

Saturday, November 3rd, 2012

 

Awww – did big mean Hurricane Sandy blow into town and blow your chance to be King or Queen of the Marathon?  I feel so bad for you.  I can’t believe they took your big generators away and gave it to people who lost life and limb, homes and memories, people who haven’t showered for a week or had a toilet that flushed.  You mean there were over 600 blankets and thousands of gallons of water and hundreds and hundreds of granola bars and they were for you, you very special person who runs because you have time for a leisure sport, and they gave those blankets and granola bars and water to those pain-in-the-ass people who didn’t have the good sense to book a room at the Ritz-Carlton or Parker Regency or St. Regis when they heard Hurricane Sandy was coming?  All because of them, you don’t get to run through the boroughs of New York, being applauded and splashed with water cups by people who don’t have the time or the money or the sense to train all year for this fabulous marathon.  And now all that water that would have been thrown at you, in an almost celebratory manner, is going to quench the thirst of people who haven’t  brushed their teeth for a week.  I wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.  Wait.  No, I don’t.  If there’s anything that’s taking even an iota of the pain of Hurricane Sandy out of me and putting a smile on my face, it’s the fact that the best you can do is run in place.

 

Well, you almost had your marathon.  Mayor BossyPants wanted you to have your marathon.  I’m sure that Bicycle Queen Janette Sudik-Kahn wanted you to have your marathon.  They figured, along with the head of the Road Runners Club, ‘What the heck — most of the people won’t know because they’re in shelters or apartments without heat or hot water or electricity, or wandering the streets, hoping someone throws them a broken umbrella or can or something, even if the label is missing.  Most of them were probably too stupid to stock up on batteries or candles, so they can’t hear the news anyway.  So they won’t KNOW we’re having our little elitist marathon.  They’re someplace shivering, or watching their sofa being carried into the Atlantic by the waves of water that overtook their living room or hoping that some of the FEMA trailers and National Guard promised by President Obama will show up before they wind up like Jack in Titanic.”

 

But then someone who works with Mayor Bloomberg  said something that should have been obvious before the first subway was shut down the day before the hurricane — “You know, Mike — having pretty much been a ‘have,’ as opposed to one of those unwashed ‘have-nots’ most of your life,  this might be hard for you to comprehend, but people standing on the roof of their house, waving a white sheet that says ‘KATRINA TWO,’ might not understand a bunch of privileged Americans and very-fast-on-their-feet Africans running just for the hell of it.  They could get pissed.  This might be divisive, Mr. Mayor.”  So, by Friday, Nanny-Mayor cancelled the marathon.  I know there are thousands of you moping about right now, thinking, “Gee — I’ve got this big number I was going to wear across my chest, and I’ve been carbo-loading and boasting to the neighbors and co-workers.  And now it’s just going to be another Sunday.  Awwww….   This seems as good a time as ever to tell you though, truth be told, I’d tell you every year since this insanity called a “marathon” started,  most of us don’t really care about your running career.  Many of us think you’re dopey and self-involved and we love the fact that there can only be one winner and even before you lace up your Nikes you know it isn’t you.  And here’s what else many of us think.  Okay.  I can only speak for myself…

 

Tell me you ran from a mugger, or ran toward a burning house to save some people and some pets, or you ran for a bus which, if you didn’t catch, you’d have to wait 58 minutes for the next one.  These are logical reasons to run.  Toward something important or away from something threatening.   When you tell me you ran the NYC marathon, my first thought is: why did you stop in Central Park instead of continuing to run until you get to – oh, I don’t know – Wyoming? !?!?  Why so hostile, Mollie?  Well, I’ll tell you.  There is a certain smugness to runners that is hard to find in most other sports enthusiasts.   “I have to eat just to keep weight on.”  How nice. Every person who’s had to eat nothing but ice chips for a week to lose a pound would like to pummel you in the face with a gallon of Gatorade.

http://checkmywedding.com/images/marathon.jpg

And your fast metabolism does not make up for how fugly you look in your stupid running shorts which, by the way, guys –  are a tad effeminate-looking.   When I see any of you stretching  on a park bench before you run, I want to run up from behind you, kick the leg that’s on the ground and watch you tumble like a tea kettle.  No one ever asks yet you love to tell us, “I have a BMI of 18.”  Guess what?  You are still going to die and if you keep offering us that unsolicited bit of information, it might not be from natural causes.  I know you love to be super-thin and bony and you lady runners – you love it when your collar bone sticks out like a coat-hook.   I’ll admit, most of you are in admirable shape;  some of you look like Jack Skellington from the “The Nightmare Before Christmas”.   Love the silver Mylar cape you get when you cross the finish line – bet it makes you feel like a super-hero.  Yes.  You are Super Baked Potato Man.   Do you check the NY Times’ list of runners and times the following Monday?  How does it feel when you see your name, the fact that you came in 4,933 in your Nike Zoom Equalon +4 running shoes  and a barefoot Kenyan man, whose villagers combined don’t make what your sneakers cost, came in first?   See you at the Verrazano Bridge start line next year and don’t just run.  Jump.