Let me tell you a little story about douchebags per square foot, RK.
One time at Union Hall, a Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was minding her own business, playin’ a little bocce, sippin’ a little vodka tonic. Some thirty-five-year-old man came up to her in his $700 artfully ripped jeans and cashmere sweater and asked if he could play against her. Being the incredibly kind, sweet, gregarious girl that this Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was, of course she agreed.
This man, however, had been watching the young lady play for a while, surmised that she was an excellent bocce player, and had decided that that meant that she was worth neither dignity nor human kindness. When the Brooklyn Skeptic contributor went up for her turn, she carefully lined up her shot, wound up and…
“Booogedy boogedy!” screamed the 35-year-old as he jumped on the court beside her. This obviously scared the fuck out of her and her shot rolled astray.
“Why did you do that?” asked the emotionally traumatized young lady.
“What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little pressure?”
The young lady, understanding that the man could have been intellectually impaired, drunk, or perhaps the spawn of Satan, decided to just let it go. He was clearly terrified by her awesome bocce skills. So the rest of that round goes by and the evil, old man doesn’t pull any more garbage.
When the next round begins, the young lady lines up her first shot again and sees the man ready himself to jump on the court again. She looks over to him.
“Stop being a dick, man. You’re no fun to play with at all.”
He whines for a little while and she vows to always bring pepper spray with her to Union Hall for the rest of time.
Now the moral of this story is: never put that many over-indulged thirty-somethings who fear middle age like the fucking bird flu in the same room with a bunch of liquor and kitschy furnishings.
I’ll stick to Floyd, thank you very much.