I Can't Find It! Buy It!

Okay, the Clinton Hill Blog is so totally not Park Slope, but I dig the raspy voice of the chick or chicky-like guy who writes it. Where the hell is Clinton Hill anyway? Because all of us—you know, Michelle, Maggie, Peter, Heath and I—we looked, but couldn’t find it. And now my celebends are saying shit like: “Clinton Hills gots like privacies.” And Maggie was like all sweet, you know, like in the Post. She was like: “The paparazzi are campers. They know how to camp. We’re talking Coleman portable stoves! I’m scared. I’m really scared.” And I’m like: “Maggie, the paparazzi will find you if you’re in the Village, in the Slope, but, you know, maybe not in Queens.” And then she got all Grey’s Anatomy dead on me and was like: “I believe this, and I believe that, and I believe in blogs, and I believe the F-word is worse than the N-word, and I believe no baby mine gonna live in queeny-ville.” And then Peter was like: “Yo, speak it, my sweet garden of life bitch.” And I was like: “Shit, Peter, stop. Listen, you do gay good; gay white shit is yours. Do that dirty, sexy maybe-gay white thing. But you can do black like an eraser can draw.” And he was like: “Oh, excuse me, sorry. I'm working out a new role. But let me talk to you like a white dude to a, um…well, a guy I ended up moving near. I’m rather distraught. 7th avenue is… Well, this is hard. I’ve grown to love this place. I’ll try to get it out…7th ave is going to be…converted. They’re saying a one-way street man! And I’m saying no way, man! This is truly devastating—for my kid's future, man!” And I was like: “Damn, HolyHood knee-bender suck-too-many suck (beat) suck (beat) ers. Key Foods gots shriveled like dried like shit-mother-fucker bell peppoors. Fuck Seventh. Who the damn hell cares?”
(Photo by Newell the Jewell on flickr)