Excuse yourself!

When the hell did "mobility devices" become thrones? Did I miss this memo?



These people have become really bossy lately, and this extends beyond the one woman who lives in Park Slope and bellows "COMING THROUGH" loud enough that everyone in a 12-block radius hears her coming. SHE can get away with it because she's 85 years old (and actually very sweet if you have a real conversation with her).

This is my one attempt at being politically correct for the month, so just go with me here: It's terrible when somebody's confined to a wheelchair or scooter or cart (for those of the canine persuasion), but I'm sorry, it's no excuse to be rude.

I've been in a sans-iPod kind of mood the last couple days, enjoying the ambient sounds of the city instead of listening to Confessions on a Dance Floor for the 1,832,414th time. I was doing just that this morning on the Upper East Side when all of a sudden something from behind me blew out my ear drum: "EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!"

::: Open bag ::: retrieve iPod ::: "Every little thing that you say or do/I'm hung up/I'm hung up on you" :::

Excuse yourself, bitch, and See You Next Tuesday. Sorry I didn't scatter flower petals for you!

When I get stuck walking behind a 450-pound man or a horde of lazy, apathetic teenagers, if I try to get around them, I'm called an impatient jerk (which is completely accurate but also beside the point right now). Instead, I have to wait until I can go around them and give them the half-turn stink eye. I've repurposed the look you give the asshole who keeps kicking your seat from behind in the movie theatre.

These people need to get off their throne and either wait like the rest of us or be polite.

Fair-Weather Brunchers

I've come out of hiding to discuss a very serious issue which I happen to hold near and dear to my heart: brunch. For those of you unfamiliar with the meal, brunch is the lush's weekly triathlon consisting of three parts:

1. Haul hung over (or possibly still drunk) ass out of bed no earlier than 2pm.
2. Put on (and never remove) sunglasses in an attempt to appear somewhat human.
3. Guzzle mimosas and gorge upon carbohydrates until hangover is gone.

We do this every Sunday, and we take it very seriously. This is the life of the professional New York City Bruncher. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor even snow will keep us from our work. And unlike the U.S. Postal Service, we actually mean it. However, my friends, the noble practice of brunching comes under attack around this time every year by one of the most vile human demographics in existance: the fair-weather bruncher.

Before I explain what a fair-weather bruncher is, I have two things to say to these (and I use the term loosely) people:

Fuck.

:::and:::

Off.

I'll say it again for the cheap seats in the back: Fuck off.

As soon as it hits 65 degrees outside, these blood-sucking scumbags come crawling out of the woodwork, crowding our restaurants and monopolizing our outdoor seating. You see, my friends, the definition of a fair-weather bruncher is, quite simply, one who brunches exclusively in fair weather.

Are they part reptile and need the refreshing outdoor seating to warm their cold-blooded, soulless hearts? Professional brunchers EARN those outdoor seats by dragging ourselves to restaurants in the dead of winter and forking over $20 every Sunday year-round. Show some fucking respect.

If you must show your disgusting faces – which almost always wreak of judgemental sobriety – at least have the common decency to stay the hell out of our way. And for God's sake, leave your screaming brats at home. We're at brunch TO GET RID OF a splitting headache, not exacerbate it.