"Your Booty" in Three Syllables

I know.

You don’t have to tell me.

It’s not Thursday. But I’m still going to give you “Thursday’s Things New Yorkers Say,” simply because today I have time and yesterday I did not!

I'll be better next week. Promise.

Ladies and gents, without further ado, here is the chitchat from around the city:

Waiting for the E train at Times Square to get to Martha:

A man in a Yellow Jacket is kind of circling around the platform with his headphones on, occasionally mumbling a song lyric. I think nothing of it.

“This is my song for reeeal, no doubt, See the DJ’s makin’ me feel thugged out.”

Oh great. And we’ve got a singer! These people have always annoyed me. Why do they assume we all want to hear them sing? Never the less, I’ve heard worse and louder. But I do silently curse the fact that my Ipod’s battery is dead.

“As I walk you to the dance floor, we begin to dance slow. You put your arms around me, I’m feelin’ on yo booty.”

Um. Seriously? First, he kept singing…why? Second, feeling-on-yo-booty? Are we really going to sing that right now? Uh, sir, isn’t it awful early in the morning for a booty song?

“And yo hair weave’s lookin’ kinda puuuuurty, the way you back it up on me, baby, Lord have meeeercy.”

Oh – oh no. I’m laughing… out loud. Straight up laughing. Sure, I look like an idiot too – but Yellow Jacket is now bending, dancing, and singing LOUDLY about a purty girl’s weave, while waving his hands around. Other people are beginning to stare at him. Is this Candid Camera? A joke? Please, please be a joke.

“Playaz wanna play, ballaz wanna ball, Rollaz wanna roll but I’m takin’ all, after I dance.”

Boo. Come on Yellow Jacket. That didn’t even rhyme. If you are going to MAKE me unwillingly listen to your music you sure as heck better perform up to standard.

And then is happens.

“Yo boo-o-ty.” Imagine. Booty becomes a three-syllable word. He starts off by saying it low and with a deep voice.

“Yo boo-ew-ty. Yo boo-ew-ty.” Getting louder.

Yo boo-EW-ty. Yo boo-EW-ty!” Louder and higher pitch.

“Yo boo-EW-TY. YOO BOO-O-TY!” Too loud! Too high pitch!

“YO-BOO-EWWW – EHHH….”

Yep. He cracked. His voice cracked big time. No more booty for him. The platform echoed that shameful note and I simply starred at him with a slight (vindictive?) grin. All the things that came to my mind – all the things I could have said!

Instead I just shook my head. Yellow Jacket may have had the booty blues for a few minutes, but don’t you worry about him. He was singing again before the next train arrived.

And while he annoyed me, and while I thought about yanking his earphones from his head, and then shouting “WE DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU SING,” I refrained.

Because Yellow Jacket is a part of what makes New York exactly what it is and exactly what it’s supposed to be.

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Pics of the Week

How's this for hobo-chic living? Our roof begins to leak...

...a lot.

Then the wind was so bad it blew over my picture frame and opened my AC unit. I was sitting in my bed and then BAM. Mother Nature invaded my room. Craziness.

"Your Booty" in Three Syllables