Dear Food Nazis, Part II...

You know, the quality of life here in New York city has suffered greatly ever since someone decided it was a good idea to listen, and to take seriously, the mental diarrhea of a class of effete snobs.

Led by our Mayor-for-as-long-as-he-can-continue-to-pay-for-the-position, or as I like to refer to him, Reichsfuhrer Bloomdouche, this class of pantybunched little bedwetters have taken what was once a vibrant and delightful city, and turned it into a sterile preserve of their own, one which is now beginning to take on the character which is a reflection of their collective souls.

It's all so Brave New World.

The city looks modern, it appears to still be hip and happenin', it still has the outward aura of being New York, the Big Apple that Toddlin' Town, but this is surface glitz; just beneath all the new smoked glass and white concrete, below the thin veneer of sophistication which still clings to New York like barnacles to a rusted hull, lay a city with a weakening pulse, it's strength and dynamism sapped by a bunch of mostly-transplanted dickheads whose biggest wish in Life is to avoid seeing, hearing, doing, or allowing to exist anything that threatens to burst their bubble of self-generated conceit, and the phony, aloof, egotistic, haughty, dominated-by-affectation lifestyle that comes with it.

Brooklyn hot dog vendor chased from neighborhood by overbearing pompous asses.