These Trivia Blog posts come from the emails I send out as Quizmaster of the Gael Pub Trivia Night every Tuesday. But seeing as how they comprise most of the writing I seem to do these days, I thought it fitting to include them on the Pale Writer blog as well. I won't include things like info about categories or drink specials, but will keep the bulk of the rest. Hopefully you enjoy, so much so that you come out some Tuesday at 8:30 (3rd Ave. b/t 82nd and 83rd)...
There’s a reason The Penguin carried an umbrella, and not a gun.
Now that Summer has transitioned into Fall, I’m a mostly happy and serene man. Gone are the days when the harsh rays of the sun would cook my delicate, marshmallow-y Irish skin to a fine crisp before I could walk from 83rd Street to 82nd Street. No more will I be forced to have my olfactory senses attacked by the stench of week-old trash rotting in the heat. The leaves are changing color, giving us all a wonderful sight to behold while we ignore the fact that the trees are basically just dying before our very eyes. Football is back, and with it the excuses of Jets fans who assure us that, “Mark Sanchez might not be a typical great NFL quarterback, but he’s one hell of a game manager,” or at least until he throws his next game-ending, 4th-quarter interception.
But with the Fall also comes our ever-present New York City Fall rainy season, a torrent of unpredictable, annoying showers that help to wash the crap off of our sidewalks, but also wash out one of my most hated groups in the city, for which the word “crap” is far too good:
(It’s a word. Shut up.)
You know the Over-Umbrellaers; the people who plow along the street during a rainstorm, holding giant golf umbrellas over their head like parasols in an Amy Winehouse-sized cocktail. (Too soon?) They blatantly ignore the established social rule of what a proper umbrella-size-to-number-of-people-under-it ratio is, knocking the rest of us aside like so many fleshy raindrops. I get that you don’t want to confine yourself to one of those weird, hook-handled umbrellas that we’ve all bought 19 of because they always end up breaking–the culmination of a ponzi scheme of Madoff-esque proportions (too soon?)–but you should still expect to suffer along with the rest of us.
If it rains, and you have to walk outside in it, you’re probably going to get a bit wet. It’s something we accept as New Yorkers, along with exponentially increasing subway fares, guilt-inducing calorie cards on our restaurant menus, and sometimes having no choice but to turn a corner and see a homeless man’s junk swinging free in the wind. It’s naive and, frankly, a bit entitled to just assume that you should be the one who stays dry while the rest of us are mentally calculating how many extra hours we’d have to take on or corners we’d have to work in order to afford a car payment. But we never finish that calculation because the pointed end of one of these uber-brellas stabs us in the cornea while its owner is still a good 5 feet off.
Capital punishment is too good for these people. They should be beaten about the face with their monstrous rain-blockers and paraded through the wetness bearing a sign that reads, “I am inconsiderate, and the dampness of my clothing reflects the very emptiness of my soul.” You want my support for a fourth term, Bloomberg? Make that happen. That, and bring more Chik-fil-A’s to New York. Mmmm, waffle fries…