Who the hell are you talking to on the phone? You’ve been chattering nonstop for the last half-hour. I don’t think I’ve even seen you breathe, much less allow the person supposedly on the other end of the line to speak.

Who is your carrier, and what crazy rate plan are you on? I know you’re not swimming in cash or you wouldn’t be driving a Towncar that looks like it ended its career as an extra on a Dukes of Hazzard episode.

Speaking of which, I may not know much about cars, but shouldn’t this model have come with, y’know, a dashboard? I know you don’t have a meter, but a speedometer might be nice. I’m just saying, is all. The fact that you appear to be shifting gears with a socket wrench is a tad off-putting.

And what is that smell? I didn’t want to say anything at first, because I thought it must be some kind of ethnic dish and I didn’t want to be insensitive, but now my eyes are starting to bulge. It smells like Andrew Dice Clay’s career in here, and I can’t take it much longer. I thought I knew what “stench” meant from that time my roommate left a burrito in the sink for a week, but that was before the word was so brutally redefined in this backseat.

What’s that matted clump stuck to the window? Is… is that… is that hair?

Uh… that SUV is… it’s… it’s gonna… JESUS H. CHRIST! C’mon, man – I know I said I was in a rush, but my dismemberment insurance isn’t paid up this month, so how about you relaAAAAACK!

Erm… does the West Side Highway really seem like the best route to get from Midtown to Queens? Okay, okay! Sorry I asked. I don’t know what you’re saying but you’re obviously very excitable. Eyes back on the road, please, ’cause there’s a Dodge NeOOOOOOLY FUCK!

Hey, that was neat. You actually managed to re-locate my spleen. Cool as that is, though, I just retched a bit of street-corner gyro into my mouth, so how ’bout we ease into the gas from now on there, Sparky? I didn’t know an ‘83 Lincoln could go from 0 to 60 in 0.2 seconds. Learn something new every day.

What do you mean, where’s Queens Boulevard? It’s Queens Boulevard. It’s the big fucking boulevard that runs right down the middle of Queens. Well, I don’t know how to get there, man, I just moved here. I’m not the one who drives around New York for a living. How about you take the money you didn’t spend getting properly licensed to do this and invest $3.49 on a map?

Just up here. No, keep going. A little further. No, a little furth… oh, just drive. I’ll tell you where to pull over. No, not on the corner; I just said I’d tell you where to… oh, fuck it. Here’s fine.

Forty bucks? Forty bucks? Where’d we go, Midtown to Queens by way of Rhode Island? I’m not paying you forty bucks to scare the hell out of me.

On second thought, it’s worth the extra ten bucks you’re overcharging me just to get out of the car.

Love,

Pip

*The term ‘Gypsy Cab’ is used to refer to a cabbie who cruises for passengers, most often without a license to do so, and has nothing to do with actual Gypsies.

Now, since I switched blogs, nobody reads this one, but I’ll still shout out for commentary from the imaginary hordes of New York readers out there to send me some comments giving me advice (or, even better, telling me how to find a damned apartment).

Consider yourselves shouted out to.