In 2007 Edwin “Lux” Luxembourg was commissioned to build the sprawling landscape by Nicholas Sarkozy so the Prime Minister could have a scenic refuge to contemplate the ending of LOST. It was funded by the highly controversial “baguette tax.”
Arc de Triumph
A tribute to France’s sole casualty of WWII, Pierre Triumph, who, during the Nazi occupation, fell off his bike while riding along the Seine River. Historians say that not only was his picnic ruined, but that literally right after the picnic he was planning on going to fight the Nazis. But due to his injury he felt it wouldn’t make any logical sense to fight the Nazis anymore. The rest of the French army also sat out of the war effort in solidarity
The Louvre (pronounced SHELF)
Built for the 1908 Worlds Fair which, that year, was awarded to Berlin. The selection committee felt the French were trying a bit too hard by building the colossal structure, and desperation is super unattractive. The French suspect the real reason for the snub, though, was because the tower resembles a four-legged pointy dildo.
The Parisian Ferris Wheel
The world’s first Ferris wheel, it was originally powered by coal. It is said that King Fredrick IV often received blow-jobs from his boyfriend Raul while riding the two hundred meter structure.
Palace at Versailles
Built as the vacation home for King Fredrick and his wife Maria Antoinette, it is now a water park open only on Sunday afternoons and the morning after a full moon.
Spurred by the success of the animated Disney movie “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” it was built in 1998 hoping to attract tourists to the area. The effort was such a success that a private university in the United States opened to entice the same type of affluent Disney lovers. Instead, they attracted religious types and linebackers with fake girlfriends.
French Military Museum
A beautiful 20,000 square foot tribute to the French army, most notably relics gathered during Napoleon’s conquests. The famous general invaded countless countries unprovoked and massacred thousands of innocents, proving once and for all that despite being five feet tall his penis seriously wasn’t small or anything.
Anywhere can be considered the center of the earth. Even the toilet you’re on right now. If you got up, lit a match—two matches—and started walking east or west it would take you equal time to get back to the porcelain throne you just abused. But the poop gobbler you just fed lunch to isn’t the center of the earth. New York is.
I’m so glad you asked.
In NYC (which is short for New York City) the architecture has no overarching theme. Some buildings are so sleek you wanna rub your cheek against them, others so jagged you’d think a dyslexic seven year old designed them. All types sodomize the sky more than scrape it. Buildings influenced by Victorian era palaces, Greek pantheons, and Sith temples share a single block. They’re indiscriminate paint blotches up close, but a masterpiece from afar.
The people. I love New Yorkers because nobody’s from New York: Everybody’s a guest so nobody’s a guest. Hasidic Jews, rich hipsters, poor hipsters, savvy bankers, Italians in jumpsuits, the people are as much a hodgepodge as the architecture. Most great cities have militias of angry “locals” who gleefully disparage migrants like they’ve come to steal spots on the JV baseball team.
“Welcome to Austin, Don’t forget to Leave”
“Keep Portland weird”
“Native San Franciscans only”
New York, meanwhile, is a meritocracy. They want the best players for their team because it will, simply, make the team better.
Due to the cost of living, to stay in NYC you must be really good at something, be willing to work hard at it, and be compensated accordingly. And because you worked so hard all week, you’ll want to let loose and party all weekend. And you’ll have money to spend which attracts the best clubs, the best bands, and the most unique bars. And you’ll party until the sun tells you to go home, not a city curfew.
My friend and I were lounging on a flat rock beside a lagoon in Central Park when we saw a pudgy older man paddling a rowboat straight at us. When he was within spitting distance I waved and said hello.
He violently fought the opaque slew until his boat crashed up against our modest rock.
He didn’t say it in a bossy way, but a supremely confident one. Once in the boat he asked us to paddle for him, which we did. We ended up chauffeuring the man around the lagoon listening to his stories about 9/11, the army, medical troubles, and George Washington’s dog.
Very few people casually live in New York, most are chasing something. (I know this because I was there for over five nights) And you have to admire New Yorkers because they consciously put themselves in a tough situation by moving there, and many will wind up back in their hometown of Bumblefuck. But like the man who asked two iPhone-glued assholes to paddle his boat, they’re at least willing to try.
After seeing the world’s best stand-up comics, awesome clubs, triumphant buildings, eating the best food and looking at the most beautiful women (from a safe distance), you leave NYC with the comforting realization that right now you truly are not shit, which means you can be anything.
Office of Darth Vader
Ominously Dark Room #712
Outer Space, Far Away Galaxy 69696
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Serial X7YT669,
I send you this intergalactic digital telegraph with a heavy heart. As you have no doubt heard, your son, Serial X776HTIP was gunned down by a rebel last week on the still under construction death star.
The incident occurred when a few rebels came on a rescue mission to free Princess Lea who we’ve held captive for some time. Princess Lea is a dignitary in the intergalactic senate and served as a valuable prisoner in our fight against the rebellion. Also, the guys really dug watching her change and take shits in her cell through a live feed.
Your son, Serial X776HTIP, or as his storm trooper friends affectionately called him, Jeffery, was guarding the prisoners’ cell when the rebels freed her, killing him in the process. Your son’s murderer is most likely Luke Skywalker who I’m ashamed to say is my son. This isn’t the first time he’s acted up and killed one of daddy’s minions, and please take solace in knowing he will have a lengthy time-out once I convert him to the dark side probably around the third movie.
If it’s any further consolation please know that your son’s murderer recently kissed his own sister. I know, fucking gross right? Initial reports say there was limited tongue action but still, c’mon, that’s weird haha.
More important than the menace of his killers, though, is the heroism routinely displayed by your beloved son. Since his arrival on the Death Star Jeffery was always first to volunteer to guard those neat retractable doors which make that cool “whoosh” sound.
A fond memory of him I often share was one time when I walked through a door Jeffery was guarding and didn’t acknowledge him. Recalling classic Jeffery moments like those will ensure the memory of your son lives on long after his body is destroyed by our big- ass trash compactor.
Please know that the galactic empire will not rest until your son’s death is avenged, or until we find another clone that does an equal or better job at standing in front of a door.
Forever and ever yours,
Darth. P Vader
Commander, Galactic Empire/Dark Side of the Force
Nobody but bouncers get a free pass for having such a dog-shit attitude. Nurses that go feces-hunting in the elderly’s hospital gowns don’t scowl like bouncers. I’ve seen bait worms that did their job with more enthusiasm.
Reading a number off a piece of plastic, the core duty of their profession—that’s a strong word– occupation, isn’t an injustice of eye rolling proportion. It’s like they were unaware what bouncers did when they applied for the job.
“Wait, IDs the whoollleee night!?!? Well when do I get to go home?…..WHEN THE BAR CLOSES????”
You’d think they got their jobs through the fucking Hunger Games lottery.
“Dude c’mon, they have to deal with drunk people all night….”
THAT’S A PERK FOR THESE MONSTERS! We’re marionettes to them! Bouncers absolutely adore bear-hug ejecting people who are shit-housed. They get a tummy rub as the drunkard squirms around like he’s trying to fuck his way out of quicksand.
No, not the friendly doorman at the neighborhood bar. I’m talking about the velvet rope type of bouncers who dream of moving to Vegas…the big time. The bald angry ones who only smile with the fat on the back of their neck.
And I know why they’re pissed…
Fifty thousand years ago they’d be the alpha male in the hunter/gatherer tribe. They’d be up to their shoulders in gazelle meat. The fairest cave-sluts in the whole tribe would come beckoning with a simple 2am smoke signal, even if they hadn’t smoke signaled them once that night.
And now these prehistoric kings have been relegated to holding doors for mere peasants. Meanwhile, their primordial instincts are going berserk wondering why this checkered-shirt tech nerd is with eight girls and not out picking luscious berries and burying his dead.
But they can’t articulate their angst so they fight back with passive-aggressive, chalupa night asshole rage. This rage shouldn’t be taken personally, it’s merely them reaching out and trying to ET touch the dominance men of their stature once had. It’s natural. But it’s getting super fucking old.
Since absolute power corrupts absolutely, not even frail men, women, or even The Fonz can be trusted working the door at the most cracking of bars and dank-popping of night clubs.
But I have a solution…. (fuck yeah mike)
The most effective and polite bouncer would be a golden retriever puppy strapped to a guillotine. And if anyone underage is caught in the bar, or goes into the bar when it’s clearly at capacity, or trolls in with a pack of nine dudes, or starts a lame pushing fracas NOT ONLY will the puppy be decapitated, all drinks prices will increase by $2, and the clearly hottest group of girls in the sorta defensive circle in the back trying to figure out where Karen and that group went tonight– will be kicked out.