I Hate New York
I visited in New York on a whim and I can't say that I was disappointed. I can say that you couldn't pay me to live in that shit hole, but that's another story altogether. New York is the place for self-important assholes to congregate and feel good about buying a $5.50 domestic draft. I spent more money there than I ever have in my whole life, but that's OK because around here the content-writing money flows like fucking salmon in a stream or some shit. Apparently you can earn a shit load of dough writing about wake board towers and zombie weddings.
But I digress hilariously. I visited the 9/11 memorial. Nothing funny about that, save for the tissue stations conveniently located in case you are moved to tears by large crowds of foreigners who come to scoff at America's failure of infrastructure. Of course, what we lack in common sense we more than make up for in CHARGING EXORBITANT AMOUNTS OF CASH TO VIEW RUBBLE FROM THE RUINS OF OUR EMPIRE.
Now you might think this money would go to some sort of relief for victims of the attack or perhaps the first-responders who are now down two lungs and up one nifty breathing machine. Of course, you'd be wrong in that assumption, because those people don't see a dime of that sweet, sweet sorrow money. Instead, it goes to stocking the gift shop full of shameful offerings, like 9/11 themed cheese plates and plaques commemorating the fierce battle of consumerism.
The highlight of my trip had to be playing Street Fighter in the fucking Museum of Modern Art. The low-light? Times Square. Times Square is like a fucking demilitarized zone. The subway ride was slightly less comfortable than a train to Auschwitz, which I can joke about because I come from a long line of Gypsies.
In conclusion, visiting New York is like a questionable sex act: there may be blood involved and you will most likely come in contact with a communicable disease. Next stop, Liechtenstein!