When there are no more smackdowns to smack down
Sometimes a smackerdown gets depressed
The road is long and sad
It’s lonesome to be a cowboy
Well, that’s the end of that. After slathering unpainted Spackle over all the holes in the walls, coating the walls in cockroach-attracting toothpaste, and STILL WAITING FOR MY GODDAMN SECURITY DEPOSIT YOU SONS OF BITCHES, the Smackdown has been evacuated. Through a brief six-week moving process, we somehow managed to find strangers to take all our stuff, put the few remaining boxes into a moving van, and set off into the old unknown world.
Me? What am I doing? Well, I simply called my uncle (the king of Austria, natch) and reclaimed my place at the throne. Don’t worry about me readers, I’m at the palatial Hausensplitzervolksfatter on Hefeveisenstrasse, dining on petit fours and romancing various dilettantes. You know how it is.
So there shall be no more smackdown, because there is no longer a Monitor Street. Greenpoint is dead to us — and, by extension, to everyone else. While we’ll miss the coffee shop on the corner that never had coffee and the grocery store closing at SIX FUCKING THIRTY and the rude stares and the dog crap everywhere, and the garbage storms, and the FREEWAY, I suppose all good things must come to an end. I’d recommend you read our other blogs, but I don’t think we have any. See you out in America, readers! I’ll be the one standing under the world’s largest ball of twine, sipping Courvoisier. And pouring some out for my proverbial blog homies. Peace out, kids.
If you haven’t met us, we looked like this