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How Many A**holes Are There in New York? – The Haven

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Too many to count?

Photo by Alexander Redl on Unsplash

It occurred to me that many writers hail from NYC.

I dug deeper.

To my horror, I began to see a pattern of arseholery. There appeared to be a plethora of arses in New York.

How could this be? How could one state produce so many toxic individuals?

But I had no issue with that.

I thought. What if I too was living in New York? What if I was one of them arseholes? I know I don’t have mass appeal, so there must be a large contingent of people that hate everything I write. It makes sense when my figures are so low and my topics are so niche.

Arsehole tag count stands at one person. That’s right. One person who was possibly writing about an arsehole. Of course, the transatlantic twist brings out more asses (218) and assholes (259). Even being an arse has more company (3).

I digress.

I Imagined myself wandering the streets of New York and bumping into various arseholes. Not that they saw themselves as such, but more the case that I had been writing about all the arseholes in the vicinity.

If NYC is anything like Christchurch, in a town where everybody had two to three degrees of separation, then the likelihood of being ousted for calling somebody an arse is very high.

I’ll be standing at a gallery opening. Dowsing myself in vino. Scorched Earth policy — go out in flames taking bystanders with me. I told you before, I really am an arsehole. I’ll be holding court, passing judgement on some faux-shock pastiche canvas that the artist had bled and shat over, when a finger pointer would arrive.

Death by finger pointing. Like that scene in Invasion of the Body Snatchers with Donald Sutherland.

“HEY!” The obnoxious always begin with an outburst. They need the drama and the attention. They thrive off an audience.

“HEY! Aren’t you that ASSHOLE who writes shit about people in New York?”
“Me?”

I love drama too. The innocent butt-clenching ‘me’ question that hangs with an air of indignity. For added effect and extra layer of arseholery, I would conjure up “Moi?” as my reply.

Would it be just my luck to run into a victim of my words? Or would it be a simple case of economics? Of the odds playing out that I had to meet somebody at some point?

Which brings me round to my initial argument. How many arseholes are there in New York? How many people can you bump into in any town before they turn out to be THE arsehole that you’ve written about?

This is where paranoia takes over. Play the odds. Lets look at logic.

Five views. Eight million people in NYC. That’s odds of 0.00062%

You can track my steps on Fitbit and my patented ArseTrackingHoes, though I fear the Marketing Department may have misunderstood me.

Till next time. Stay safe.



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