The Commute: Tale of the Williamsburg Hitler

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Having burned all of our bridges with Connecticut, we really had to dig deep to come up with today’s installment of our twelve-part series, “Bro’ing Out With Bankers: The Commute” (today is part II; hunker down—we’ll get there, and we’ll do it together or so help me God I’ll pull this car over and you can walk). Yes, after crossing every town in Fairfield County off the dry erase board (like we care!) that ‘Breaker editor John Carney had so lovingly—albeit while hopped up on amphetamines and pure hate—printed out in his best cursive, we had our work cut out for us. We scraped the bottom of the barrel and Williamsburg by way of the New York Water Taxi was what we—John—decided upon. Per usual, this was not a trip we wanted to take alone. Unfortunately, Pete was busy lying in a pool of (what we can only hope was) his own vomit and all of our other friends either A. Claim to have jobs or B. Are egomaniacal pricks whose Pavlovian conditioning decrees that they only stand at attention when in the presence of either Junior Mint-toting hookers or women that remind them of their mothers (we’re looking at you, Tom, in particular; Joe Kelley, you’re also being watched), with a few—Rothbard—who encapsulate both, however, statistically speaking, constitute a very small percentage of the group—though you know we never say no to a Venn Diagram and we’ll include this one after the jump.

This is Schaeffer Landing. Not much more to say here except
that had my memory card not been suspiciously full, I
wouldn’t have had to delete the glamour shot of the
Peyas Posse just beneath this sign.

Here we have a classic example of a WWWOWS
(Williamsburger Who Works On Wall Street)
Williamsburg + Wall Street = This guy
Let’s examine the specimen further:
Notice that he’s wearing a shirt with pink, rather unorthodox stripes: Williamsburg!
But he’s the fact that he’s wearing a button-down, rather well pressed shirt: Wall Street!
Shoulder-strap messenger bag? Williamsburg!
More than 2% body fat? Wall Street!

Waiting for the WT, I stumble upon this WWWOWS,
which was fortuitous, because it allows me to now
discuss an important subset of this exotic tribe with the
aid of a visual. Right now, students, you’re looking
into the eyes of man made of hate and hate alone.
A bigot, if you will. Unlike our last example, a seamless
intersection uniting the elements of both Williamsburg and
Wall Street into one harmonious figure, this WWWOWS
says fuck off to the reality of the fact that he works
across the river, and gives the (dirty, probably ending
with a nail painted onyx) finger to equality and the idea that
it doesn’t matter if you’re a Blackan immigrant a Wall Streeter
or even worse (because he hates the idea of trying to
meet the infidels halfway) a WWWOWS who believes
that both aspects of its heritage ought to be embraced.
Hilter was 1/8th Jewish but that didn’t stop him waging a
war on every Heeb he could get his hands on;
this man is Hitler, for the WWWOWS set.

Our chariot arrives and not a moment too soon;
Hitler’s got a Youth rally in twenty minutes.

A button-downed, rather well pressed shirt: Wall Street!
Facial hair: Williamsburg!

You can’t see it but this guy has a button on his messenger
bag that says “Hi, My Name is Mr. Post-Post-Modern”: Williamsburg!
What a scamp, trying to throw us off the trail like that!

Like Hitler, these two WWWOWSs are also extremists,
though on the other side of the spectrum. Unlike Moustache Man
(Hitler), they don’t care what people think of them. They might
live in Williamsburg but damn it, they've never listened to indie
rock and are proud to say that no micro-brew has ever
passed their lips. Prejudice be damned, they are—
balls out—their own men. Sing it sisters.
You let your freak flags fly with pride.

Next week: our third installment of “Bro’ing Out With Bankers: The Commute,”
when we take a walk on the wild side with Midtowners Who Work On Wall Street.
Stay Tuned!
As Promised

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