Maybe NBA-looking is just another way of saying they're Canadian...

And when Sir Reginald told me he thought the 1787 Chateau Lafitte was overrated, I nearly choked on my silver spoon!

As Grimes drove me down Park Avenue, I noticed a group of young Tupac fans...

It reminds me of the time Foxy Brown threw her 10-pound Shih tzu-poodle at me.

My mink wall to wall carpeting did not take well to the Artesian Well-Water Cleaning Solution.

John? What a weird-ass name. He is so going to get teased at school by Dillinger and Lulubelle.

Ronald, my shorter slave, seems to have adjusted to his closet sleeping space; the thundrous midnight knocking has died down to a faint fingernail scratching.

I landed my helicopter atop a gathering of colored youth playing basketball.

Obviously, all these people must be Southerners.

You forgot to mention "condescending" (such a clever super!).

Today's "Little boy: 'Let's go to Bloomingdale's. We do better there,'" is my favorite in just ages.

Didn't some paper's style guide ban "burly" about a decade ago because it was seen as code for Black?

My assistant died for my sins. My new assistant and I do a Stations of the Cross for her and everything.

After removing all the scumbag's identifying jewelry and tossing it down a storm drain, I helped Detective Byrne fold the dead guy in half and stuff him in the barrel, straining my back and getting blood all over my... oh, sorry, I thought this was Metropolitan Police Diary.

Just before Christmas, I arrived at my Fifth Avenue apartment building tres fatigue, and tres burdened with packages from Hermes, Prada, all my usual haunts... and my poor doorman dropped one of my packages as I waited for him to collect them from the cab. Just then a man in a torn coat lurched toward us. I was aghast. I froze. But the man simply picked up the dropped Hermes bag and handed it to me. Of course I didn't touch it myself, since he had put his fingers on it; but my doorman skillfully scooped it up with his little finger, and off we went into the building. Crisis averted!

Money racism plutocracy fin de siecle Blaine 92nd Street Y summer place Sagaponack elevator man botox.

Just because you are a Carr's Cracker and not a Saltine Cracker, doesn't mean you are any less Cracker, Cracker ass cracker.

@CodePink: You're on fire. Don't stop the music.

While reminiscing of the colonies at Da Silvano...

@lawyergay: did you clip that from a Metropolitan Diary spam?

From the NYT Corrections page a few years ago:
"An anecdote on Monday in the Metropolitan Diary column misstated the origin of a humorous story about a Russian-born Jewish mother who said after seeing ''Fiddler on the Roof'' that it brought back memories, ''only I don't remember so much singing.'' The comedian Alan King told the story about his own mother in his 1996 autobiography. The reader who submitted it as a story related by a friend was not aware of its origin."

Of course not.

As I approached my vestibule and fumbled for my keys I suddenly felt queasy. Realizing I had been overserved, I decided to rest momentarily on my stoop, but awoke hours later in a puddle of regurgitated Belvedere and sashimi.

Christ what an asshole.

Well, so long as nobody is fact-checking: I was sitting with my four year-old son, Dillinger, in the back seat of our Bentley (which was skillfully being driven by our black chauffer, Hoke) the other day when the most New York of New York moments occurred. We drove over to Fifth Avenue (so warm and soft, almost pastoral, on the summer Sunday afternoon that I wouldn't have been surprised to see a great
flock of white sheep turn the corner!) to pick up a new jar of La Prarie facial lotion at Bendels. Whilst waiting at a red light, a Mexican teenage girl (at least I think she was Mexican she could have been Cuban it is just so difficult to tell) holding the hand of a yong girl (who was no more than five) walked in front of us. Dillinger, seeing that the teenager was wearing extremely tight jeans and her rounded belly hung out over the waistband, turned to me and said: "Oh mummy, I think we should by that girl a new pair of pants so she doesn't have to borrow pants from her little sister."

I always thought the feature would make a great "MadLib": While riding the [INSERT plebian mode of transport] with [INSERT full name and social security number of grandchild], we were seated next to a [INSERT derogatory and/or prejudicial adjective] man/woman. Upon reaching our stop at [INSERT prestigious school, unusual hobby, or boutique], [INSERT full name of grandchild] said [INSERT comment too advanced and scripted for age of grandchild]. The entire [INSERT plebian vehicle] laughed.

I am so glad I am poor.

Overheard.
Location: No.2 southbound train, 2:30 pm
Players: myself, & two 13-year old girls returning from school.
Girl 1: So who are you voting for?
Girl 2: I'm voting for Hillary cause she's a woman!
Girl 1: Wait! We can't vote, we're too young!
Girl 2: Oh right. Also we're New Yorkers, so I don't know where the subway stop is to vote!
Girl 1: Hey the old guy across from us is taking upskirt shots of us!

Why, just this morning I was driving down the street when I was nearly side-swiped by some laundry-owner-looking types. Shaken, I got out of the car to check for dents when I was approached by some lawnmowing-looking men who I feared meant to hurt me. It scared me almost as badly as the time I was on the plane with those convenience-store-owner-looking men with the turbans!

I was out on day with my beloved grandson selling copies of The Final Call when a Range Rover full of little children stopped at the corner. One of the little girls pointed at my grandson's bespoke bowtie and said, "Oh look! A little waiter." My grandson looked up at me and said, "Kill Whitey!"

THE SCENE: Central Park Zoo.

The players: A well-dressed couple, tourists from Italy.

Gregory Allen overhears the following exchange.

Woman: Oh, look at the penguins!

Man: (Silence).

jan. 1, 1997

what, you want me to send one in that makes people think I take the crosstown bus?

Oh dear... my mom once submitted (and had published) a Metropolitan Diary anecdote about how quintessentially New York it is when her Jewish husband and Pakistani doorman exchange a hearty "Merry Christmas!" when the former gives the latter his holiday tip. Should I kill myself now?

I was taking our twin girls, Roosevelt and Harding, to our weekly the Mommy-and-me Kaballah classes in the Peg Peregro stroller and as usual, people were not getting out of our way, but we put up with it because wee've stopped driving the Escalade 1 day a week to help prevent global warming.

@flossy:
Did she include the part about how in the secret code her Jewish husband and the Pakastani doorman had, "Merry Christmas" means "fuck you"?

As my driver parked my Maybach in the filthy Union St. Garage in the bourgeois section of Brooklyn, commonly known as Park Slope, I passed a bunch of big, black men who were obviously in a "steet gang" [such a quaint term!]. they didn't rob or rape me and for this I made eye contact with them and then instantly regretted it.

I want armies of squeegee men to come back and rise up and do very bad things to well bred people and their adenoidal children.

suffice to say, the watermelon and fried chicken went first.

I'm surprised they didn't call the burly youths of the N.B.A. looking men "Canadians."

The Mexican-looking doorman called me a cab...

At the National Zoo's Outdoor Flight Cage at the Bird House:

Two Mandarin Ducks are perched on the handrail close to visitors who are snapping lots of pictures.

Young dad calls to daughter: "Gina! Gina! Those are the Mandarin Ducks we get at the Chinese restaurant!"

Other onlookers exchange shocked looks.

Young dad turns to others: "What? It's true."

[dcist.com]

Dinner the night this was published

WOMAN (who sent in the entry): Didn't the nanny tell you it's sushi time, Fitzgerald?

(Astoundingly precocious and unfortunately named five-year old) CHILD: Your bourgeois tendencies have reached their zenith, you harpy.

WOMAN: Oh, but those janitor-looking hoodlums were so funny!

CHILD: Your racio-economically based elitism disgusts me. I hate you already and I'm not even a teenager yet.

WOMAN: Oh, Fitzgerald! You are so adorably precocious!

CHILD: For the last time, call me Timmy and let me watch some goddamn Sesame Street!

I took the nanny's personal information in the event that I may have to file a law suit against her due to the flooded bathroom. Furgeson threw a toy car down the lu and flushed it.

@amplesufficiency: Little Elijah has a brother?

On the way to lunch at a friend's townhouse, I was strolling with my Papillon, Jacques, south down Madison Avenue. At 72nd Street, Jacques decided to "do his business." In an instant, a window opened above us and the face of a rather handsome man--though handsome in a pronouncedly Levantine way--appeared and he screamed down at us "If you don't pick that up with your bare hands, you goyische faygellah, my fashion assistants will have the both of you fed to my polo ponies!" Luckily, our old family dog walker, Hop Sing, was only a half of a block behind us, carrying the pooper-scooper!

So I said to Mitzy "Public transportation?! That's for common-folk and immigrants!"

For the first time, I had charge of my three-year-old grandson, Hoover, for the full weekend, while my daughter took some much-deserved personal time in the city. I decided to take Hoover to my sister's home in Connecticut. When we arrived, our driver, Jasper, carried our luggage up the driveway to the door; Hoover and I followed behind. I could see Hoover growing more and more perplexed as we stepped toward the door; he began to look around quizzically as we stepped into the foyer. "Hoover, dear, whatever is the matter?" I asked him as he furrowed his tiny brow. "Grandma, where is the doorman?" he asked worriedly. "Don't they have doormen in Connecticut?" How Jasper and I laughed at little Hoover's precocious Manhattan view of the world!