Full disclosure: we live in New York City, so when it comes to jaywalkers we’re generally pretty Nancy Pelosi. Want to walk on a full hand? Go for it. Want to txt while cutting across a side street? This is America. Want to stroll across Second Avenue at 3am? To each his own. However, there is one type of pavement flanneur that makes us angrier than Rush Limbaugh at a lesbian chili cook-off: Extremely Entitled Jaywalker.
This particular street stroller has gotten it into his head that Terry Richardson has personally granted him the American-Apparel-given right to own the roadway. As if you, in your mother’s Honda Civic, late for your $25 head shots, must wait while Mr. EEJ takes his time making his way across four lanes of traffic, while pondering the meaning of last night’s saliva session (“I was just experimenting…”) Heaven forbid you give him a polite stare, or a subtle honk, because any form of “what the fuck are you doing,” however polite, is instantly met with a look of utter repulsion from a douche bag who looks like he should be cleaning your windshield for loose change and a half-eaten banana. Ridiculous! This guy could be walking diagonally across a Los Angeles expressway as the entire city flees the impending Ashton Kutcher zombie apocalypse and this backpack of suck wouldn’t even pick it up one step.
Next time we come across one of these guys, we’re not even going to get angry, we’re just going to shove them in our car, drive them to the airport, pay for their cargo class ticket to Paris (maybe some duty free), take them to a confusing roundabout and let the Parisians deal with him. La vengeance est un plat qui se mange à la carte al, le meunier. Merci pourquoi.