Fuck the panhandlers grubbing for money, smiling at me behind my back. Fuck the squeegee men, dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job.
Fuck the Chelsea Boys with their waxed chests and pumped-up biceps, going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jiggling their dicks on my Channel 17.
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafes, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth, wheelin’ and dealin’ and schemin’. Go back where you fucking came from.
Fuck the black-hatted Hasidim, strolling up and down 19th Street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff, selling South African apartheid diamonds.
Fuck the Wall Street brokers; self-styled masters of the universe, Michael Douglas-Gordon Gekko wannabe motherfuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hardworking people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail, for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn’t know about that shit? Give me a fucking break.
Fuck the Bensonhurst ltalians, with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, their St. Anthony medallions, swinging their Jason Giambi Louisville Slugger baseball bats, trying to audition for “The Sopranos.”
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermes scarves and their Balducci artichoke. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched all taut and shiny; you’re not fooling anybody, sweetheart.
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus-violating plungers and their 9-shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it, from the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue, from the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho, from the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park Slope to the split-levels in Staten lsland; let an earthquake crumble it, let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash, and then let the waters rise and submerge the whole rat-infested place.
- Monty Brogan, “25th Hour”