Dear obnoxious party girls currently roaming the streets of Manhattan,
No one cares about your friend's birthday, how drunk you are, or why the original Russian version of Anna Karenina resonated with you more despite it not being in your native tongue. Save it for your Facebooks, Twitters, and next semester at Cambridge, ladies.
If I have to hear another "Woo!" followed by an in-depth analysis of the Carter administration, I'm going to swear off any 24-hour Subways within a fifty-block radius of a discothequeand that's both of them.
Don't get me started on the men they attract.
I can see that your shirt says "Armani-Exchange," Ug. I don't need you to start flexing your knowledge on colonialism and how it's called "Wall Street" because the Dutch built a literal wall there to keep neighboring Indian tribes out.
Enough about the Algonquins, Al gone crazy.
I'll give you a handful of beads just to shut up, or is that not enough to buy a RedBull and vodka? I thought the bartender was the one who turned you on to Bikram yoga. Which reminds me, so much for you being "boys" with the DJ. Dude hasn't given you a second glance, let alone a shout out to your performance as Guildenstern in Shakespeare in the Park, since we walked in here.
That's what sets you off, me forgetting you were Rosencrantz? I'm not going to get involved with an idiot like you. It's not worth it. I'm not going to jail because some hot-tempered meathead is getting his ham steamed.
It's no wonder you and your crew look like oompa loompas, you must have done enough coke to get Johnny Depp to do another Willy Wonka film.
Did you hear Snooki had her baby?
"The Real World"? Try the "Jersey Friggin' Shore." Do you even own a TV?
Right, right, forgive me if I tuned out that conversation after the sixth time we had it. I'm sorry, it's just that my Snookerz gave birth to a healthy six pound bundle of joy, and that's kind of a big deal for me.
Did you get that Anchorman reference?
Oh, so now you want to go back to Long Island?