Actual NYT Reporter 2.jpg
Here's a photo of the New York Times Dining & Wine section, minutes before being ridden into battle by an orc.
There's a phenomenon that's


The New York Times Can't Stop Fellating Colleen McBanshee's Delicatesticles

Actual NYT Reporter 2.jpg
Here's a photo of the New York Times Dining & Wine section, minutes before being ridden into battle by an orc.
There's a phenomenon that's sweeping the nation: Unemployed white people are bored in record numbers. It's not entirely original; there certainly were plenty of people, bored and white AND unemployed, hanging around in times past, most recently in the 1930s and 1970s. But back then, unemployed white people did things like looking wistfully into the dust blowing around on their farms or writing songs about socialism.

These days, unemployed bored white people open street food carts in New York City. And then the fucking New York Times writes about it.

They can't help it, really. For the New York Times, writing about food carts owned by yuppies is an unstoppable reflex, like the way your knee kicks when it's tapped in just the right spot, or the way men find themselves insatiably sucking kilometers of cock once they become a pastor at an Evangelical Christian megachurch. So I don't really hold it against them too much (SPOILER ALERT: I actually DO hold it against them later, don't worry).

It's a pretty simple formula, really: "Recently unemployed yuppie sells childhood treats, preferably ethnic, from a street cart, fights old-school hot dog vendors, jacks prices 1000%." It's so easy! Don't think you can do it? Balderdash! I'll jot down an example right now.

When Colleen McBanshee lost her job, she soothed her broken ego the way she always did: with a care package from mom.

McBanshee, a consulting analyst at a social media firm, was laid off a year ago. "When they told me I would no longer be needed to provide real- time proactive integrated solutions for all of my clients needs, I wondered what I was going to do." But inspiration came from an unlikely place. "So I called my ma back in County Cork. I told her I got laid off, and she sent me a care package of my favorite childhood treat: candied Leprechaun testicles."

Candied Leprechaun testicles are a coveted delicacy in Ireland, but McBanshee thought Americans would like neither the full, rich Leprechauny flavor (they do, after all, taste like a tiny man's balls), nor the fact that they grant wishes which inevitably result in your oldest child being killed in a terrible factory accident. However, when she put out a platter of the sugar-coated glands at a cocktail party, they were gone in seconds. "Everyone kept telling me I should sell them on the street."

So that's what she did. At first, business was slow, owing in part to the American unfamiliarity with the treat, and its $9 price tag. After Eric Ripert name-dropped her cart, "McBanshee's Delicatesticles," on the Today Show, however, she found herself selling out within an hour of opening her cart in the morning. "I sold more testicles the day Ripert mentioned me on TV than I did the whole six months before then. The best part about all of it was hearing [Ripert] try to pronounce 'Delicatesticles.'"

Today McBanshe has a second cart, and plans in the works for opening a pub. "It's going to be a neighborhood hangout with authentic food, sort of like an Irish Frankie's Spuntino. Except that it's a brewpub. And it will only serve beer we brew on-site. Beer that's made out of the blood of Protestants."

Clearly, McBanshee's Delicatesticles DO grant wishes.

And that's it! It's as easy as your mom! All you must do is follow a few simple guidelines. The subject of the article has to have been laid off from some completely superfluous job. The more vague-sounding, like "systems consultant" or "information manager," the better. It helps if they've got some sort of ethnicity. Make either some troubled allusions to turf wars with the neighbors or, if it's a lighthearted piece, mention someone famous. End with a quote that isn't funny.

That's all there is to it!

So here, New York Times, is where I give you motherfuckers some tough love. YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING RETARDED. This is why journalism is dying: BECAUSE NOBODY GIVES A SHIT. People who haven't made their mortgage payments in six months don't care too much about a Korean chick who sells balls of cupcake batter on a stick for $8. And guess what else, New York City? FUCK YOUR GEOGRAPHY. You motherfuckers shave neighborhood boundaries closer than a triathelete shaves his nuts. Two kids arguing between the miniscule differences between "blackened death metal" and "symphonic black metal" on a Youtube comments board don't inflate distinctions as much as you fuckers do. Jesus Christ.

You need to open up the pool of ideas. There are people out there with unique angles for stories, but you ignore them because they didn't graduate from Columbia. Please stop hiring writers who listen to Frightened Rabbit and who have read Franny and Zooey more than once. I know that last sentence contains way more contemporary references than I would normally write, but I'm trying to couch this argument in terms you liberal arts degree having motherfuckers can understand. That's how important it is to me to get this message across. Seriously. This is a matter of life and death.

Rating: 1 cliché out of 10

The New York Times Dining & Wine section is available here.

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