NEW YORK – A CONSTANT STATE OF DREADS

Here’s a question for all you godless Darwin-types out there: If natural selection really kills off those attributes least suited for survival, how come we are still being plagued by white people who think letting their hair grow into one long, bug-infested crap of a turd will get them laid some 30 years after they started turning stomachs? The guy with the infinity-dread number feeding back into the scalp which birthed it was sent to us by a reader earlier this summer. The left one was spotted at the East River Bar over the weekend by this guy who shoots for us after he managed to shanghai a female member of their party and impress her into a 40-minute term of shitty-breathed boredom service. Assuming that in each case the dread has taken over for the brain by this point, we aren’t going to bother with the question of what they’re thinking. But how do they sleep at night? I mean literally, how do they do it? Do they tuck the lock between their legs like one of those body pillows for frigid dowagers, or do they let it cascade off the side of the waterbed (no question) so the rats can nibble the ends at their own comfort and leisure?