My Privileged Life

New York doormen are pretty fabulous.  They wear fancy pressed uniforms, are usually very friendly, and make super honest livings.  Unfortunately, their union's contract expires in less than a week which means that building workers are prepared to take action in the form of a strike.  I would, too, if they threatened to decrease my vacation days.  I mean, who's the moron negotiator who put that on the table?

Today, we received bar-coded I.D. cards which will let us into the building if, you know, there's no doorman to hold open the door.  Awemee.  Gah.  Do you smell that?  That's the stink of privilege.  Here I am unemployed with doormen that smile and open doors for me.  The gall.  Like, isn't it a shame that Paris Hilton's heel broke off her Jimmy Choo at last night's red carpet event?  I KNOW.

Last time there was a union strike, it was the late nineties and it lasted for two weeks.  Let's hope they clear things up faster than that this time around.  Why?  Because I think both you and I know that a lot of grossness can transpire in two weeks' time when you share walls with neighbors who are too lazy to take their own trash out to the dumpster.  Before you know it, too many of God's creatures come a knocking.

This city is gonna be hurtin' somefin' fierce if they don't come up with a fair contract soon.