Oh, hey there, New Yorker. Do you know where you live? The greatest city in the world. This is not a lie; it is a fact. How do we know? Well, the tiniest mayor in the history of the world, Bloomberg, reminds us of this every time he takes to NY1 with an announcement about this or that—you know, right before he says the same thing in his horrifically bad Spanish.
It’s hard being a New Yorker. We’re so fancy, sophisticated, well-dressed and overall far superior to everyone else in the world. Don’t disagree with me; we all know that’s our repeated mantra in the mirror every morning: We. Are. The. Best.
So, when it comes to traveling to a foreign land, it’s extremely pertinent that everyone around you know that you’re a New Yorker. To quote Carrie Bradshaw when she was in Paris and asked if she was an American: “New Yorker.” Hell, yeah. You’re hardly an American; you’re a fucking New Yorker, so act like it.
In acting like it, it means always making sure everyone within a 5-mile radius knows you’re a New Yorker and not some hillbilly from Tennessee. Respect a New Yorker, because we’re the fucking shit. Here’s how to make sure you’re not mistaken for being for some plebe from—gasp!—another part of the United States. Gross.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. Like Carrie, always respond with “I’m a New Yorker.” Even if you’re fluent in the language being spoken, you still have an American, er, New York accent that, to the untrained ear, may be mistaken for, god forbid, the middle of the country. Stop anyone in their tracks and put them in their place: You’re a fucking New Yorker.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. So, you’re at lunch, you’re solo and you’re waiting for your meal. What do you do to kill time besides tweeting and Facebook bragging as to where you are? Pull out your New York Magazine. It’s not like people in other countries read it, but everyone recognizes the words “New York.” Everyone: the waiter, the busboy, fellow patrons—everyone. Flip through it casually, laughing loudly from time to time. You know, because New Yorkers are funnier than the rest of the world, and obviously, we laugh better, too.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. Sometimes you’ll find yourself amongst the common people of other countries in, say, Spain. It is your duty as a New Yorker to school that group of tourists from Australia about how New Yorkers refer to things. For example, we call the subway, the “train,” we refer to our BFF Diet Coke as “DC,” and we snub Staten Island because it really shouldn’t be part of the five burroughs. Yo, Australian tourists, don’t ever go to Staten Island. As a New Yorker you need to trust me. New Yorkers know everything.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. Did you know there’s a food truck near the Eiffel Tower? Hahaha! No, Seriously: Hahaha! You know what they call this shit? “Très Brooklyn.” So how does a New Yorker alert those around them that food trucks are no big deal? Example: “Have you guys had the tacos from the truck in the back of Union Pool? They’re the shit! This taco truck is far from ‘très Brooklyn.’ I’m not an asshole! I’m a New Yorker!” No one can argue you on either account.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. You’re lost, and you can thank Google maps for steering you in the completely wrong direction. What do you do? Yell; that’s what a New Yorker would do. We’d yell, kick something, then call someone back home in the States – a friend, a co-worker, your mom, your absent-minded assistant – and yell like there’s no tomorrow. While mid-yelling you fall into a deep and downward spiral of neurosis: Is everyone out to get me? Does my breath smell? Are these not tight enough? And just as you’re saying these things out loud, you’ll probably get a discerning look from a local… to which you respond: “I’m a fucking New Yorker, OK? I haven’t seen my analyst in TWO WEEKS.” Truth.
You’re a fucking New Yorker. You’re out for dinner in Italy and are about to order, but you have a question: “Is this pasta full of carbs and gluten? Because I’m allergic.” The response: “Huh?” You: “I’ll just have some lettuce with pasta sauce on it… I’m a New Yorker. Graz—you know, whatever.”
You’re a fucking New Yorker. At some point you have to head home to your beloved New York City, how do you handle the coach situation at the airport? “What do you mean I can’t be upgraded? I’m a fucking New Yorker!” End result: first class, warm nuts, champagne and blankets that have actually been washed.
Takeaway? No matter where you are, you’re a fucking New Yorker. You’re better than everyone. People should be dropping to their knees to kiss your calloused feet. You win. You always win no matter where you are. Why? One more time for the cheap seats in the back: You’re a fucking New Yorker.
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