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.