Details within, but not without a preemptive barf warning, due to combined All Things Considered/Planet Money content and graphic descriptions of neoliberalism and other perversions of the extreme haute bourgeoisie.
This appalling story comes to us courtesy of one Wednesday Martin, lately of the Upper East Side. My first reaction to hearing Stacey Vanek Smith utter this woman’s name was cracka you gotta be shitting me, followed on short order by extreme gratitude to my parents and all other stakeholders in their social circle that I was not christened Wednesday. In preparation for this article, I performed light Google-fu and discovered that this Martin chick’s real given name is Wendy, not Wednesday, and that she is the self-promoting author of some powerfully masturbatory memoir-cum-exposé literature about Society to points east and north of Columbus Circle. If you’re looking to give city life a bad name, Wednesday Martin is your woman. If you’re looking to give NPR, Planet Money, and Stacey Vanek Smith bad names, she’s still your woman; they’re the ones who ran a piece implying that she’s some sort of average rich woman on the street, not an attention-whoring neighborhood gossip and C-list published celebrity author with her own professional website. Sometimes, you have to put on rubber waders and a Sherlock Holmes cap and break into the production line to see how the sausage of journalism is made; other times, it’s all out in the open, on parts of the internet whose mistresses wish they got more attention, not less.
Fuck NPR. What we have so far is a transplant from Michgan to the Upper East Side who took on a dumbass hyper-SWPL stage name for the purpose of making her parents look like the sort of preening upper-crust asswipes who would thus christen their children, and we have affiliate marketing masquerading as journalism on a flagship public radio news program. We also have a breathless first-order narrator, Ms. Martin again, whose birth date has been scrubbed from her Wikipedia page, and apparently also from the rest of the internet, and a barely less breathless second-order narrator, SVS (it’s just too many names otherwise), who, come to think of it, could perform an excellent mitzvah by having Scott Simon start doing her interviews instead. Yuck.
Now, to our story. Tuuuuuuuuues- Daaaaaay- Aaaaaaaaaaaaaafter- Noon–my bad, Wednesday Martin was walking down the street one afternoon, or other time of the day, shortly after moving to the Upper East Side, and she saw a majorly stuck-up bitch walking towards her on the same sidewalk carrying this notorious Veblen good purse by Hermès, the Birkin. Just in case this premise alone isn’t enough to induce vomiting, I should mention that Wednesday has this affected sort of daddy’s-spoiled-little-girl upmarket seaboard diction, one that says, like, I’m loaded and have eleventy billion dollars’ worth of college education, but I’m not articulate enough to be, like, a civil engineer or a professional geologist. So this other bitch was walking towards Wednesday, “almost at me,” encroaching Wednesday’s side of the sidewalk, until Wednesday was pressed up against a garbage can in order to stay out of this bitch’s way. The bitch then duly brushed right up against Wednesday with her handbag, in what Wednesday forthrightly called “a dominance move.”
It gets even more fucked up than that. Wednesday was transfixed and immediately lusted after what this bitch had: the ugly-ass leather handbag with the padlock. It turns out that Hermès greatly enjoys dicking around with its customers about the availability of these bags, putting them on waiting lists, putting them other waiting lists for the waiting lists, and eventually (in Wednesday’s case, after only a year) delivering the goods for a price that would break any normal person’s bank. This is why it’s such a popular bag even though it looks like shit. It’s exclusive. It’s the pufferfish of handbags, and less toxic only if the chef forgets to remove the poisonous part of the fish. Remember, these are the same assholes who call in favors to bump their competitors from reserved tables at trendy restaurants, while the more genteel wealthy on the Upper West Side figure that it’s once again a fine night for Chinese takeout, but come on, why waste the evening on the train going down to Chinatown to get takeout that won’t kinda suck. These are the assholes who backstab each other to shoehorn their precious snowflakes into the right preschools.
Of course these are blindingly white Superzips. Fair housing legislation be damned, they know how to keep the Community at bay, along with all sorts of other riffraff. They won’t rest until they’re the top bitch, too.
The proper solution to this animalistic display of dominance, of course, is not to try to join the aristocracy, but to destroy it with force of arms. And I mean arms in the sense of I’m pretty sure you don’t have tickets to the gun show. This bitch who took the entire sidewalk for herself committed assault, menacing, disorderly conduct, and obstruction of a public right-of-way. She needed nothing less than a desk appearance ticket, but what she really needed was a meeting between her backside and this piece of sidewalk that she so loved as her own. She needed Jonathan Josey to slam her flat down on it and tell her, “It’s your sidewalk now, lady.”
This style of policing wouldn’t be as bad as it might look. If Kajieme Powell hurls pastries at your face and comes at you with a knife, it’s because the poor guy is completely out of his mind and needs an intervention by someone who knows how to deal with the mentally ill. (If you want spoiler alerts for how this story ends, you might want to get at least a tiny bit woke.) If this rich bitch in Manhattan comes at you, it’s because she’s completely sane and desperately needs a deterrent. Jonathan Josey is a bad cop, but if he went after her kind instead of some hothead who just got done beefing with some other hotheads at a street fair, he’d be a bad cop doing a public service for a change. To paraphrase Geico, if you’re Philadelphia Police Lieutenant Jonathan Josey, you slam women half your size flat down on the pavement; it’s what you do. You might as well slam a bitch who goes around forcing her neighbors off the sidewalk like she’s exercising her white privilege under Jim Crow, not some Puerto Rican chick who got loud and rowdy with some other loud rowdies. You ought to use that ugly gift for a beautiful reason, like making a bitch realize that her shit stinks, too.
Actually, what I like even more than the idea of Jonathan Josey literally throwing it down is somehow convincing Jon Belmar to come east and police up the well-dressed sidewalk menaces. He’d make them blow head gaskets just by being a bit shanty Irish around the edges. Alternately, Charles Ramsey, Ronal Serpas, and Sam Dotson could all get together on the sidewalk for a few boxes of pizza and obligingly step aside to let pedestrians pass, unless they look like assholes who want to take ownership of public thoroughfares, in which case they’ll let them bounce. I mean that literally: something hard runs into something soft, but not as soft as it looks, and hence physics. We finally find, you and I collide, or maybe you and those other two collide. Billy Nungesser, although not a cop, might enjoy a pizza break, too. Maybe he and Ronal can find a way to accidentally spill some jambalaya on a bitch. No, ma’am, that isn’t five-way chili; it’s just five-way, split four to one, and you aren’t part of the four.
I’m not entirely in jest about this. The Upper East Side is domineered by some truly evil people who truly consider themselves above the law. They despise common decency as bullshit for economically marginal chumps. The Upper East Side isn’t the only pathologically rich neighborhood in the United States that harbors and succors these shitheads. From Minneapolis:
I don’t know about you, but this photo makes me think that maybe we should bring back defenestration. Unfortunately, the protesters are blocking the balcony, so it’s a difficult option. On the other hand, Josey would easily find enough sidewalk space for this smirking bitch. If he slammed up, not down, that is. This chick is up.
No, I’m not against Whitey. I’m against assholes, and honky bitch here is one. Not all white people are like that, but she is.
Low-altitude defenestration with medics on standby should be feasible. Of course, there’s always the floor. It’s never the ones who deserve to be laid out on the floor who actually are laid out on the floor. Respect for decent white people isn’t what’s at stake here; she’s an indecent white girl. She obviously finds it amusing that nonwhites are upset about the police murdering other nonwhites with impunity, but might she be up for patrolling a bad part of St. Louis? Of course not. Just look at her. If she and Barbara Spradling would be able to stand each other for five minutes, I’m Inspector Lewis.
Don’t worry, though. She’s safe. She can rely on the old man’s money for world-class police service, not the bogus kind provided for the swarthy poor, and for high-end clothing.
Summer: Yes, Wednesday, it’s an excellent verb.