It's worse than "Snakes on a Plane"

This has not been a good week for the airline industry. Yesterday, we learned there was rat feces and roaches in our complementary turkey sandwiches. And today, they’re sprinkling maggots on everything.

And by everything, we mean the food, the seats, and the passengers.

According to news reports, A U.S. Airways flight bound for New York was forced to return to the gate in Atlanta because thousands of the little critters were raining down from the overhead bin compartment.

The airline blames spoiled meat in a passenger’s suitcase.

Our question is: where the hell was the airport security on this one? They pull you out of line and anally search you for having 2 oz. of shampoo, but they let you pass with a suitcase full of rotting cow? They make you completely undress when your metal belt buckle sets off the alarm, but they don’t bat an eye when they get of whiff of rotting flesh from the Samsonite?

Sucks to be flying the putrid skies.

Not because it’s jam packed with crazy heroin addicts, Tourette-stricken homeless people, and, well, New Yorkers. It seems there is also a real live coyote on the loose.

And it’s not the fun kind of coyote that drops anvils on its own head and blows itself up with wheelbarrows full of Amce dynamite. This coyote is armed with sharp claws, big-ass teeth and a wicked case of the rabies. And he’s looking for some housewife from Brooklyn to take out for dinner, if you know what we mean.

Sucks to be surrounded by nature.

As one might imagine, the furry little visitor has brought the terror level in NYC to an all-time high. So much so that Rudy Giuliani is ready to come out of hiding and make a speech.

To make matters worse, officials can’t seem to capture the four-legged Osama no matter how hard they try.

Our advice? Get one of those watch vendors to track the thing down. Nobody can get away from them.

The City of New York, in its efforts to keep its title as The Most Whacked Out Metropolis in the World, has issued a guidebook to help heroin users use more heroin.

The 16-page instruction manual, titled “Take Charge Take Care,”  illustrates the proper way to prepare the drug, the easiest way to find a vein, and tips on keeping your drug dealer from dying in your apartment.

The only thing missing from the textbook is the cell phone number of Willie, the guy with the good stuff.

The cost of the manifesto to taxpayers: $32,000. Or to put it in another way, about 110 grams of dope.

Sucks to have government officials who are stoned out of their minds.

Not that we’re experts, but perhaps it would have been better to print a different pamphlet. Maybe one called,  “Directions to Rehab.” Or better yet, “Hey Heroin Addicts, Move Your Asses To Jersey.”

When you’re driving through New York City, you might expect to be run over by Rhasheed, the 1-day immigrant cab driver. You might expect to have your car stripped in a parking lot. You might even expect to have your hub cabs stolen while at a red light. But this? This is even weird for NYC.

But if you happen to stumble to the car, plant your face in the windshield a couple times, and take 20 minutes to insert the key into the key hole, instincts might tell you to just head back to the puke-filled floor you were sleeping on and let your Boone’s Farm-filled pal pay his debt to society.

Of course, if you’re drunk, your instincts might not work so well. As  Stacy Kolinski found out.  Stacy decided that her own inebriation was no reason to keep out of the car or off the road. So, when her buddy George Reddick called, she threw her half-drunk beer into a pile of empties and hauled her full-drunk body to the police station. When she arrived, the cops—who by this time has a lot of practice recognizing drunks—gave her her own sobriety test. She promptly blew the lights out of the breathalyzer (a whopping .20 blood alcohol level), and joined her buddy in the fingerprint line.

Sucks to be that drunk and stupid.

No word on who picked Stacy and George up. But rumor has it, it might have been Nick Nolte.

When George Carlin came down from the mountain and presented to the world the “7 Words You Can’t Say on TV,” Fox News Anchor Ernie Anastos must not have been taking notes. Because recently he dropped a huge F-Bomb on air that reverberated through the virgin ears of all New Yorkers.

His exact words were, “keep fucking that chicken.”

And now, he’s going to get fucked by the Federal Communications Commission.

You see, Ernie, the boys down at the Commish are the biggest group of prudes this side of the Abstinence for Jesus Club of Waco, Texas. So when they hear shit like “fucking chickens” on their sacred airwaves, they go insane.

Sucks to have the wrath of the FCC unleashed upon you.

So, Ernie, have fun watching the Grim Censors come to take away your life savings and your car and career.

"Poker in the front, liquor in the rear. Now we got neither, Stu."

Rest easy, citizens of Baldwinsville, New York. That big gambling ring that’s been tearing at the moral fabric of your community has finally been eradicated. That’s right –  the police have closed down the Canton Woods Senior Center penny-ante poker game.

Whew!

And while it’s great that you can finally let your children back outside, it sucks for the old codgers stuck inside. Because now they’ve got nothing to while away their remaining days but Wii bowling and concerts by tone-deaf 5th graders who can’t remember the words to “This Land is Your Land.”

“This is an outrage,” one fossil proclaimed.  “I won 73 cents yesterday. And $1.04 the day before. Give me another 27 years, and I could have taken old Eugene for everything he’s worth.”

C’mon coppers. Don’t take away the only degenerate joy these guys have left. After all, it’s pretty hard to chase skirts strapped in a scooter. And drinking with the boys would only result a thousand bad drug interactions. So cut them some slack .  And, hey,  if you really want to outlaw something for our senior friends, please make it driving 0.3 mph in a 55 zone.

Nice, but where's the Demolition Derby?

Let’s just call New York, New York what it really is. A city for chicks.

And this isn’t us talking, folks. Truth be told, we “heart” NY. And, ya know, we’re not all that weirded out by guys who get manicures. But in a recent poll, NYC was ranked as the Least Manliest City in the USA.

Which means, if you’re some tatted-up, beer-guzzling, tool-molesting, testosterone-engorged man of men living in the Big Apple, it sucks to be you.

Sure, you can always pop over to Radio City Music Hall, the Empire State Building, or the Museum of Modern Art. But you’d be hard-pressed to find a decent Monster Truck Rally.

Yes, you can always check out “Jersey Boys” or “Mamma Mia” on Broadway. But you’ll have to stumble over a gazillion hair salons and Ikeas to get there.

And try going hunting on Park Avenue. Not easy with all those diamond-clad blue hairs scaring the game away.

Gentlemen, our advice to you is this: Pack up your spittoon, your collection of mounted deer heads, and your poster of Kyle Busch and haul ass to Nashville. There, men are men. And they’ve got a trophy to prove it.