
strolling through Tompkins Square Park in the East Village
big love season 4 starts filming in august :)
A great memaw was driving to Austin, Texas to buy some Werther's, Metamucil and Icy Hot when she was pulled over for speeding. Officer Christopher Beize told 72-year-old Kathryn Winkfein that he was going to write her a ticket for going 60 in a 45mph construction zone. Kathryn wasn't about to roll over and play the sweet grandmother role. No, Kathryn refused to sign the ticket. That's when Officer Beize threatened to arrest her old ass if she didn't cooperate. Officer Beize should know that you don't fuck with a memaw, because bitches don't play!
Memaw Kat got out of her truck to give Officer B a big slice of FUCK OFF PIE. Memaw Kat eventually agreed to sign it and tried to wrestle Officer B's ticket book out of his hands.
And Memaw Kat should know that you don't fuck with a police officer, because they carry taser guns. That's exactly what happened next. Officer B tasered Memaw Kat! How are you going to do that to a memaw?! Officer B is lucky Kat's heart didn't jump out of her prune hole and run away!
In his report, Officer B said he had no choice but to taser Memaw Kat. He said she was trying to push him into traffic and if he didn't subdue her, she would've hurt him or herself.
After paramedics arrived and changed Memaw Kat's Depends, she was arrested for resisting arrest. If convicted, she could face up to a year in jail and a $4,000 fine.
Officer B should get his taser gun taken away! This is wrong on so many levels. First of all, he didn't need to fry the granny! He could have just given her a caramel square to calm her down a bit. Second of all, I think by tasering Memaw Kat he made her eyebrows jump up a couple of inches! Messing up a ho's eyebrows is the biggest crime of all.
And I'd also like to congratulate Kathryn Winkfein for becoming an official member of Latarian Milton's Hood Rat Stuff Gang.
Motherf*ckers, I’m a bike rider, musician, writer and drug dealer in New York City.
In order to pay my rent, I bike like crazy all day and all night, and check out girls jogging, you know, love them for their strength, and try and figure out why their ponytails flip around like perfect infinity signs. In order to get that sh!t done and to talk to you, to write to you, I’ve got to sacrifice my ethics, and my good name. Feel funny every time a cop looks at me. Hide my identity and stink like sh!t.
I used to sell shoes and I couldn’t take it anymore. Making those beautiful girls laugh and selling them crazy sh!t to wear on their feet and then they leave and we wouldn’t even have sex in the stock room or get married or get drunk on my lunch break. I mean, I’ve got a backpack with a thousand dollars in weed in it and I’m biking in West Village on a Friday night and there’s parades of gay, black teenagers and I’m like, there’s everything in the world and I’m coming from my publicist’s house, I have a rock band and I’m just trying to make it, you know?
I’m coming from my fat, wretched publicist’s house and he wanted me to trade him weed for publicity and I was like, why don’t you buy the first bag? You know, to get us started. And all he could do was be fat and wretched and not give me money and not roll a joint.
I’m coming from the publicist’s house and this homeless guy with one leg and a piece of floss tied on one of his lips, holding his bloody, fucked up lip together like home surgery, he’s got one leg and he’s in a wheelchair going backwards in the bike lane and he wants to race me.
And I’m like, “Get the f*ck out of the way!”
And he’s like, “Come on motherf*cker, let’s race, you can’t beat me!”
And I try to just go around him and I got cabs on my left and this sad, deranged madman on my right and he’s going faster and faster so I start going faster and the motherf*cker hits a pothole and flies out of his wheelchair and smashes into my front wheel and I just manage to hold it together and not spill and not get hit by a car and not die and I look back and he’s laid out in the street, bathing in a cab’s headlights, and I got to make sure he’s okay – but I got a thousand dollars of high grade weed in my backpack and, are there any cops around? And I almost finished college and I was born smart, how the f*ck did I get myself doing this crazy shit?
Bike and stare at girls and almost die and sweat and sweat to bring high grade marijuana to people’s apartments. They let me in their house and I reek of B.O. and kind weed. I stare at the art or whatever kind of bullsh!t they have on the wall. I check out their furniture. I’m always trying to look at everything and I wonder what they have in their fridge and I think, this is pretty cool.
This is like a kind of anthropology, seeing the world, better than being a toll booth operator because there’s more exercise involved and there’s the possibility of beautiful sex in the afternoon with strangers. Isn’t there? I mean, it hasn’t happened yet but I don’t think there’s a delivery man in all the 5 Burroughs that doesn’t dream of some hot, rich bitch in a penthouse, you know, with nothing better to do all day than scratch the walls and drink champagne and lay around in lingerie and fuck the guy that brings her flowers, the guy that brings the pizza, the postman, the UPS guy, the want-to-be-Bukowski that gets her stoned and likes to talk about movies and beauty and lay around in lingerie waiting for me to take their money, get them high, and f*ck them while the skyscrapers rape the sky