Posts Tagged ‘mollie fermaglich satire’


Wednesday, August 17th, 2016



In the great blue room

There was an email server

And lots of pantsuits









And a picture of –

Yassar Arafat’s widow









And there were three more pantsuits

And two little kittens,

Who looked kind of like the Clinton’s cat, Socks, who they gave









away when they got their chocolate lab, Buddy,









Who they weren’t watching too carefully when the

Car ran him over and killed him….

And some expensive china









That was

pilfered from the White House

When the Clintons moved out in 2000

And a little house in Chappaqua

IMG_0950That was great for booty calls

According to the Secret Service….

And a young aide named Huma

Who was married to a man who

Had two names – Anthony Weiner when he was good

And “Carlos Danger” when he was a bad, bad boy.




And a bowlful of “charity” money

To be donated to The Clinton Foundation.

By the Clintons.

To their own foundation.   Am I the only one who

Finds this suspicious?


Attorney General Loretta Lynch does not.







A quiet old lady. In a pantsuit. Who wasn’t really quiet.

Or ladylike.  Who wanted to be president of the United States

Because it was her turn.

And a younger woman named Huma, who was very loyal and

Didn’t even leave Carlos Danger the second time he posted


his weiner on Twitter. Huma gave advice to the not-so-quiet

old lady and took advice too.

Don’t leave Carlos Danger. I didn’t leave Bill after that Monica

Lewinsky right-wing conspiracy. And now I’m going to be






Good night, Jew intern.

Good night, Vince Foster.


Good night, George Dubya

Good night, Benghazi Four

Good night, Carlos Danger — “Oooops-I-Did-It-Again…”





Good night, Omar Mateen-who-I-didn’t-know-was-seated-behind-me-at-rally

Good night, James McDougal

Good night, twelve Clinton bodyguards who died on our watch

Good night, Charles Ruff

Good night, John Ashe

Good night, Sean Lucas and all of the other people that had something to do with

Me and Bill and then just up and died

Good night, Rolling Stone reporter Michael Hastings

Good night, Sally Quinn

Good night, Dick Morris

Good night, Republicans-you-racist-religious-gun-toting-moonshine-

Drinking, sheet-wearing-ham-and-bean-supper-eating-Christians

Good night, Hispanic people – I am your “abuela”

Good night, Black people – you know that I’m one of you even though

The color of my skin means I get a better table at most restaurants and

Salespeople don’t watch me like I’m about to boost all their merch

Good night all you traitorous Dems who forsook me in 2008

Good night, Israel. I love the Jewish people.

Good night, Muslims – I just said that – I really love you more and

Burquas help de-objectify women – Huma told me to say that.

Goodnight, Claire McCaskill

Goodnight American women with shapely ankles who aren’t forced

To hide their unsightly cankles in pantsuits — in my first 100 days

In office I will sign an executive order outlawing skirts and dresses

Goodnight, John Kerry, Secretary of State and Heinz Ketchup heir – you may

Be an idiot but you’re our idiot


Good night, Obama and don’t think that just because you’re endorsing me

Now that I will ever forget your stealing the election from under me in 2008

Good night, Donald Trump who thinks that just because he has a prettier

Daughter people should vote for him









Good night, Bernie Sanders, you socialist with three homes – well done!

Good night, Iran and please remember when you detonate

Your nuclear bomb in ten years that I helped you get it so

Please let me know beforehand so I can hide in Greenland

Goodnight Huma

Goodnight Bill

Goodnight my grandchildren – yo soy su abuela – see? I speak Mexican!


Out, damned spot! out, I say!–One: two: why,
then, ’tis time to do’t.–Hell is murky!–Fie, my 40
lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?–Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him.


…what was that?  Another vast right-wing conspiracy – of that I am certain.

Goodnight all you Americans who have Obamacare – wait ’til I get my hands on it

Goodnight to my black brothers and sisters – I don’t feel noways tired 

Goodnight America that I will run into the ground




Good night world



Monday, August 18th, 2014

Dear Russell Brand,

I know.  You think I am dead.  There was a big controversy about my “alleged” anti-Semitism a few years ago but, when I died earlier last year, the media, kind of sort of “forgot” how, for decades, I kind of sort of forgot I was actually Lebanese and hid that fact by selecting the very American and vanilla surname, “Thomas,” which I concealed for the more than the six decades I worked as a reporter covering the White House.  I chose “Thomas” because another very famous Lebanese person also chose the surname, (Danny Thomas)


and I figured why not ride his coat-tails?  No one seemed upset by Danny Thomas.  Oh darn – that’s right – he started St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, was a very funny comedian and a kind, charitable man.  That’s probably why.  Not fair!  Also not fair that, just because I yelled, “Let the Jews go back to Germany,” the Hearst Corporation forced me to resign.  Why is it that bad things happen to good people like me?

But enough about me – I’m dead.  What’s that?  Applause from Tel Aviv?  It’s hard to hear under all this dirt.  When I was alive, I was the woman who sat in the first row at White House press conferences because I’m petite.  Okay 0– the size of a Gummy Bear.

In fact, the press corps voted me “In Case of Re-Make-of-Wizard-of-Oz-Most-Likely-to-Be-Cast-as-Entire-Lollipop-Guild,” the reporter from NPR called me “Dweeble” and one of the Fox News cameramen said I resembled the innermost of those Russian-dolls-within-a-doll-within-doll – you get the picture.  People can be so cruel.  Even dead people like me.  Rusell, you look like the love child of a filthy, matted-hair, anorexic evil pirate who mated with Tiny Tim.


But, I digress…

I’m writing to applaud you for your recent call to BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction)  Israel.   I always thought it stood for “Burn, Dissect and Sautee.”  But I guess the “moderates” like you are taken more seriously.  I know there are more celebrities out there who feel just like us, like that mensch, Mel Gibson. But most of them keep quiet.  I did hear that Selena Gomez is on board with us, but she’s just a former Disney starlet who’s dated Justin Beiber, so she doesn’t really count.  Speaking of Justin Beiber, I heard that after he toured the house in Amsterdam where Anne Frank and her family supposedly hid during that supposed Holocaust that we both know never happened, he wrote in the guestbook, “Anne Frank would have been a Belieber.”  That gives us both some indication that, if Selena Gomez had half a brain, she’d  still be missing the other half, so being on our side isn’t exactly a plus for you and me.


And then there’s that freakish, hideous Roger Waters of that band Pink Floyd, whose brain was probably host to more drugs than the Merck Pharmaceutical Company.

He’s one of us.   Though I cannot say with certainty that he dabbled in psychadelic drugs in the sixties and seventies, he seems to suffer from severe delusions.  Though he continues to stress that he is not “anti-Jewish,”  he claims that he is “not anti-Semitic and has also said, “or pro-Nazi.” “The Star of David represents Israel and its policies and is legitimately subject to any and all forms of non violent protest.” But, you and I know he wasn’t referring to Israel or the Jews.  We know there were no Nazis and no Holocaust, which is why, for the life of me, I don’t understand why those Jews don’t just move back to Germany, which they should never have left in the first place, right, Russell?

And yet, Mr. Brand,  unfunny comedian, hack writer, skinnier-than-a-pipe-cleaner, wonky wanker that you are, I’m not too confident that, now that I’m as dead as the Dead Sea, you’re quite the one to take my place as “Jew Hater Extraordinaire.”  As I lie here, literally, I think about how you managed to forever destroy everyone’s memory of the 1981 film “Arthur,” because now when we hear that title, instead of thinking of the late and brilliant Dudley Moore, we think of you and, truth be told you did to that script what the Allies did to Dresden during World War II.  Those poor alleged Nazis – all they were trying to do was cleanse the world of Jews.  I guess no good deed goes unpunished…


It is also rumored that you dabbled in drugs to the degree that Picasso dabbled in oil paints, and this does worry me.  But then there are things you’ve done that are quite encouraging.  For example, the fact that you came to work dressed as Osama bin Laden the day after September 11, 2001, gives me hope.

And mentioning clothing designer Hugo Boss, responsible for all of those lovely Nazi uniforms, including those adorable Hitler Youth boys, during a magazine awards show last year – priceless, just priceless!   Kudos on your divorce from that Katy Perry girl – clearly she was not your soul mate.  There are so many other fish in the sea.  I believe Yassar Arafat’s widow is still single and looking and that Hanan Ashrawi could always be looking for something on the side – who knows?


But do you think you can a responsible anti-Zionist, ( secret code for “anti-Semite” we must use because otherwise even the Upper West Side liberal Jews get insulted and stop funding our causes), when you continue to smoke weed and shoot smack into those skinny little veins of yours?  I saw that portrait of you where you try to look like Che Guevera.

You must have been higher than a cable TV satellite to do that.   You, as leader of your desired revolution will be sitting on a chair, trying to stay upright as your head nods up and down and you’re conscious only long enough to hunt for a Cadbury chocolate bar.  One journalist actually called you “one who’s more idiot than savant,”  which brings to mind just one question: “Who are you going to lead, Russell Brand — The Betty Ford Clinic?”

Perhaps one has to be hideous-looking to be an anti-Semite.  Or perhaps most anti-Semites are physically unattractive.  It’s a kosher chicken-and-egg conundrum. But I think of you, me, Stephen Hawking, John Galliano, Coco Channel, (good dresser but a skinny meis kite and actual Nazi), Truman Capote, Pat Buchanan, Louis Farrakant, George Bernard Shaw, Henry Ford, John Stewart, one of those fabulous self-loathing Jews, who, like me, is the size of those Fisher-Price Little People.

I’ve also heard from sources I will protect, (because I can’t talk because I’m dead), that that silly ISIS group in Iraq is giving Christians the option of converting to Islam or moving or dying.  Three options.  That’s more than the Chinese restaurants when they offer “one from Column A, one from Column B.”  But once they off all of the annoying Jews, they’ll be coming for you and all of the other non-Muslims in the world.

I’m dead so I’m not so worried.  But you better start thinking now about how to blame the Jewish people for that.  I know they’re to blame for the sinking of the Titanic, the Bubonic Plague, Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy, (as in “Sandra” as in “Jewish”), Mount St. Helen, aspertame, chafed thighs and the possible marital troubles of Beyonce and J.Z.

So, Russell, please – keep up the good work, stay off the smack if you can and, in case you’re wondering, like most living people whether there’s a heaven or you just lie in a box until the maggots eat you when you die, I can’t really answer that.  The only thing I know for sure is that it’s hot as hell down here.



Helen (I lied about my last name and nationality for 60+ years) Thomas






Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…






Saturday, June 14th, 2014


      In a city that boasts more panic attacks than cockroaches, I’m certain those of you who live here don’t need me to advise you on anxiety attack catalysts.  But for the truly calm among you – Namaste, nice yoga mat, LoulouLemon rules –switching it up now and then isn’t a bad idea.   And so, as a service, I’ve taken the liberty of listing the absolutely finest places in New York City to get your panic attack on…


      I am one of the few native New Yorkers who remembers SoHo when real read – poor artists lived there among the  factories and the warehouses.  The dopey, trendy stores were few and far between, Spring Street Natural Restaurant was still on Spring Street and there were a few actual bodegas.  But you can’t stop progress, and by the late 80s, the lofts were being bought up by investment bankers who referred to their lofts as “their space,” and rich parents from rich towns in Connecticut and Westchester and Long Island, who purchased them for their trust fund kids, in an effort to fool everyone into thinking that an editorial assistant making $18,000 a year could easily afford a million dollar loft.

            It has devolved further over the decades, becoming a neighborhood occupied by people who could buy Zucotti Park, Mergers and Acquisitions Ivy Leaguers who love to say, “I live in SoHo,” thinking that you’re thinking, “I wonder what kind of painter he is,” or “Gee – he’s like Alan Bates in An Unmarried Woman!”  Attention, investment bankers and hedge fund managers – we know you don’t know the difference between a Manet and a Monet, a Calder mobile and a mobile phone, an impressionist painter and an impressionist.

        SoHo 2014 = outdoors Short Hills mall.  You want an art  gallery?  Go to Chelsea.  You want Warby Parker sunglasses, a new case for your new iPad Air, want to calculate how many years you’ll have to work before you could afford a button at the Chloe Boutique on Greene Street?  This is your place.  It’s like a reverse Calcutta – thousands and thousands of people on the street, moving forward for no apparent reason, wandering aimlessly from block to block, wanting, desperately, to buy anything.  It’s the bald man in his sixties, arm-in-arm with the Swedish model who’s carrying enough high-end shopping bags to stock Rodeo Drive, the group of suburban teenage girls flash-mobbing Victoria’s Secret,  grandparents buying infant onesies from vendors who look like they haven’t bathed since they were in onesies. 

       There are no museums in SoHo.  There are no monuments, cathedrals, landmarks.   Don’t they sell Vuitton in Paris?  Then why are French tourists asking me, “Où est le Louis Vuitton shop?”  Why is there an entire store that sells nothing but Nespresso coffee makers? 

How many people come to SoHo to buy a $500 Espresso maker, made, by the way, not by some Italian coffee dynasty but by Nestle, the same company that makes the Crunch bar and Hot Pockets. I secretly think the coffee stuff is just a front and that they sell pot in the back, because with rent that’s almost $1,000 a square foot, really, how many trays of Hazelino coffee pods can they move in a day? Maui-Wowwie and Acapulco Gold pods – a whole other story…



      On the other end of the spectrum is Old Navy.  Now kudos for selling cheap crap and pricing it accordingly.  Do I want to spend five bucks on a pair of flip-flops, which is probably 4 bucks more than they cost to make, or must I have Havianas on my feet, which probably cost 2.4 Brazilian reals ($1 USD), and can pretty much look like flip-flops they sell at CVS.   Yes, I know the Havianas are supposed to be better for my feet but I’m not on “Survivor: The Galapagos” – I’m walking from my apartment to the laundry room, a boardwalk to the beach, the laundry room back to my apartment.  

It’s hard to believe that there are so many people who want, for the most part, really icky clothes made from cheap material that seem to come in sizes from “American Girl” to “American Buffalo.” Elastic.  Yay.   I know that it’s cheaper to buy a cartful of turquoise faux-wrap jersey dresses and hideous cap-sleeve chiffon blouses than a sandwich at Dean & DeLuca.  But from the moment you enter and are greeted by the hopped-up employees offering you a parachute-sized sack to stuff your logo-zip hoodies and cropped-drapey Capris into,  to the time you look at the other shoppers and think, “Ewwww – but I know when I wear that stone-washed mini, it will look like it’s from Bergdorf’s,” it’s a sartorial and five-sense invasive nightmare.  Even the name of the store makes me nervous because I don’t know what it means.  “Old Navy”?  Is  there a “new” Navy or a “young” Navy?  Is it the branch of the military or is it the color?  Or maybe it’s the bean.  There’s no “Old” Macy’s.  There’s “Old Spice,” but that’s a cheap after-shave.  Cheap after-shave, cheap crop-tops – see the connection?  Me neither.  Just stay away from the Old Navy 4th of July t-shirts.  They’re pilling.  Already. (more…)


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.
















Tuesday, January 1st, 2013

It’s the New Year.  Exciting.  Zzzzzzz.  Not everyone makes resolutions and even fewer keep them.  It’s way too presumptuous of me to offer appropriate resolutions for everyone.  So I’ll just make some suggestions for my generation, people born between 1945 and 1964.  Yes – you former filthy hippies who now own homes that cost more than the G.P.A. of many developing nations, aka third world countries, which is what I really want to say but I am prohibited from doing so thanks to P.C. Nation… But, I digress…



I’m sure you have your own resolutions.  Here are some that you might not break and will also make you a more pleasant person to be around.



*   I will replace “I’m a Baby Boomer” or “I’m a Boomer” with “I am old.”  It’s less obnoxious and more accurate.

Blame Baby Boomers For the Economy


*   I will tell my children the real reason their mom and I got divorced – “I was kinda bored and you

know, I was turning 40 and I’m kinda used to getting what I want because I’m pretty selfish and my parents

raised me to think I was too good for anyone.  So even though it really fucked up your head and I’m the reason

you’ll always have abandonment issues, will be on an eternal quest to find a daddy figure to marry,

and/or will get divorced four times yourself, I had to be true to myself – can you dig it?  If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have

blended families and half-siblings and step-siblings and you could enjoy your own wedding instead of worrying, “How do I make

sure my mom and her new husband and my dad and his third wife don’t kill each other while I’m taking my vows?” and

“How many people can, logistically walk me down the aisle?”  And now that I’m on my third set of kids,  I think I may have

finally gotten this “Dad” thing down.  Cool — right?”

*   I will stop referring to Viet Nam as “Nam,” particularly because the closest I’ve ever been to Vietnam was Waikiki Beach, and I got my Master’s degree in Art History  just to stay the hell out of ‘Nam.’


*   Instead of “I’m a DeadHead,” I will just say, “I’m 71.”  Same thing.


* I will keep working out because it may help me to live longer, but will refrain from approaching the 23-year-old with the six-pack to ask, “Want me to spot ya?”


* I will not try to Facebook “friend” the 16-year-old girl I had a crush on at sleep-away camp because unless she moved from Hewlitt to Brigadoon, I will be very disappointed when I see her.


Group photo - Sydney Theatre Group members.



*   I will not take out my guitar at family gatherings and play “Leavin’ On a Jet Plane.”  I will not take out my guitar at family gatherings.  I will not take out my guitar.


*  I will stop wearing my 35-year-old threadbare Ivy League t-shirt because the only people who it will still impress are my parents.  And they’re dead.


*  I know my grandchildren are the smartest, most gorgeous, funniest most gifted children ever born.  I do not have to share that information or that Instagram with anyone.


*Ditto my children.


*  The very next time a hipster even insinuates that his generation is cooler than mine, while I secretly wish I could fit into his skinny jeans or her skanky cardigan from the thrift shop, I will say, “Hendrix, Dylan, the Beatles, or Animal Collective, Arctic Monkeys, M.I.A?”  Game over.

The Beatles  Abbey Road  



*No PDA.  Ever. Under any circumstances.

Toe-curling ... public displays of affection couldn't save Al and Tipper Gore's marriage.