I Love New York: Mr. Boston Needs to Stop Representing My Area

Previously – Aided by Omarosa, New York found out what the men were worth. T-Weed lied about having a 100 million dollars and got bounced. Pootie had a nervous breakdown, scared the shit out of everyone, and left. And 12 Pack ate a bee.

You know you love New York. You’re probably also on the public dole. Mr. Boston blathers on about beating 50% of the competition, and refers to his former roommates as the “two other idiots” who are gone. And he says that “two studs are left”. Where? Heat and 12 Pack are sharing a room and it has never been more apparent that Heat is interested in 12 Pack romantically. That could be an interesting pairing. They already both look like gay porn stars. Just go with it. Someone give Bel Ami a call.

Chamo rolls in dressed like the Village People. Stop lobbing softballs at us, Chamo. Whiteboy gawks at him like he doesn’t have any queers in his neighborhood and they were previously some mythical creature he only heard about in fables, like a griffin or a chimera. Either that or they’ve all been killed in his area by him and his friends and he thought he had gotten all of them so Chamo is now unfinished business. Heat’s t-shirt has a character from Planet of the Apes on it, and it says something about someone named Colleen. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be ironic or there’s some ho named Colleen he’s trying to disrespect by calling an ape. Anyone who gets it, feel free to fill me in.

More of I Love New York after the jump.

Written by J. Harvey

It’s an overcast day, and New York is outside wearing camoflauge short shorts over nude-colored stretch pants. Pass me that bucket, dinner’s coming back. That is not the look. The guys are split into teams, wearing spousal abusers that are either black, white or gray. Mr. Boston has my spare tire. Whiteboy and Tango have an issue. I think it’s unresolved homosexual subtext. Ok, it’s probably not but it’s fun to say. New York is carting around her dog, whose name is Her Majesty. Which is what my parents used to call me. Screw you, Mom and Dad! You don’t know me! Each team appoints a foreman. The winning team gets a date with New York, and probably gets to run a train on her. The winning team’s foreman gets something special which I assume is a chance to donkey punch her. Mr. Boston tells us that he sucks at carpentry and the only wood his hands touch is his own. That was kind of a given, you pinhead. STOP REPRESENTING MY AREA.

The teams work on choosing a foreman. Tango is the foreman of the grays, and he really proves his leadership by stopping construction to get a splinter removed. And I have to say, the grimacing and wincing he exhibits make me want to pass him a douche so he can clean the sand out of his pussy. But then I thought about it. And one time the boyfriend was trying to remove a splinter from my pinky toe with that hook part of nail clippers. We didn’t have any tweezers handy. And I was screaming like a crazy bitch with her hair on fire. Granted he was making blood shoot out of my toe because he was trying to HOOK the splinter out. But still. I feel for Tango and I spoke too soon. But Whiteboy feels that Tango is a “busta”. Busta Rhymes? God, I’m so suburban.

Rico and Chance aren’t appreciating Mr. Boston’s effort or lack thereof. All he seems to be doing is saying idiotic things and picking his nose and wiping it on his neck. STOP REPRESENTING MY AREA. He says he thinks there should be a lot of colorful rooms like hippies would live in. Did you see that in a movie? Hippies didn’t care about what color the rooms were, they were too busy living in Golden Gate Park and making sure the hookah was filled, dumbass. Chance makes me his friend for life camera-squashing that dogs don’t “hit blunts” and he can just picture a dog sitting back and “blowing bleezies”. Chance is a natural-born comedian and I love him to pieces. It’s a thug life for me at this point. Mr. Boston knows Rico and Chance are pissed at his usefulness and he feels that this means they’re intimidate by him. The only thing they’re intimidated by is that you might flick a booger at them. Mr. Boston is REALLY not representing the white menfolk correctly. Damn. At this point, I hope Chance drops him.

Real, Heat and 12 Pack are the white team. Real has taken his cornrows out and let his freak flag fly. His hair is gorgeous and full. He should do Pantene commercials. Masculine ones. 12 Pack and Heat have this weird domme/sub thing going on. Seriously, 12 Pack is ordering him around and Heat is acting like his little slave and he wouldn’t look out of place in a ball gag and a leather harness at this point. It’s sorta creepy. New York is spying on the guys as they build. And she’s going on about how sweaty they are, and how they’re using the power tools, and how she wishes one of them would bring a power saw into her bedroom tonight. What an odd request. If she was making a sexual double entendre, she probably should have said a hammer or a drill. She’s not exactly one for a metaphor. Does she have a body to dispose of or something? Hopefully someone does bring a saw and decapitates her. Chamo counts down and the competition is over.

New York brings her mongrel outside. No, not her mother. Snap! Thank you! Anyway, she brings Her Majesty to check out the houses. Her stretch pants are wretched. The houses look abysmal. New York declares the black team’s to be a “piece of shit”. She’s not wrong. Chance and Rico blame Mr. Boston. I would have. The white team wins, with their house looking like New York’s idea of elegance – pink zebra and fringe curtains. Ugh.

The team lines up that night for their three-part date. New York is lubed up and ready to pounce. Real has his voluminous beautiful hair down still and under a dollar sign cap. Heat is rocking this gigantic crucifix choker around his neck. Maybe he’d like some wine with that cheese. New York’s wearing lacey stretch Capri pants. Who is dressing this bitch? Is it really Chamo? Damn him! Real and New York have cocktails on the BALL-cony. Seriously. That’s how she pronounces “balcony”. “BALL-cony”. Stop. You are not a lady of the manor. You are a reality tv denizen. This is not Tara. You are not Scarlett. Cut the shit. Tomorrow will not be another day. She says he’s her Samson. He tells her he’s Delilah so he gets points. She tells him his hair feels like silky wool. She tells him she would never get between him and his brother unless they were using two inputs on her. Ok, she didn’t say that but you know that’s how she operates. The champagne glasses they’re drinking out of are lettered with faux pearls. They had so many weird props left over from Flavor of Love. I woulda sworn Flav would have taken this shit home with him in his trunk.

Mr. Boston is bitching about his two “cocksucking” teammate and how they sold him out. He’s belching, too. This guy is so classless. STOP REPRESENTING MY AREA! All this guy does is burp and pick his nose.
Nasty prick. It’s Heat’s turn for his part of the date. And the guy is f*cked UP. Seriously, I think he did some meth or some shit. His eyes are bugging and he’s got that lip-smacking thing going on and he’s talking a mile a minute. Come over and put that excess energy to use by cleaning my apartment. New York is still hung up on the fact that he would feed his Ya Ya before her. He informs her that his Moms and his Ya Ya are probably going to live with them if they were together. That’s really sexy. Tell me more. New York starts to f*ck with him and asks if she can have male friends come over to spoon with her. We don’t really get his answer because she camera-diagnoses him as crazy. True. He is acting a little batshit. She says he’s “mental trippin'”. Also true. She leaves out “jacked-up high as a kite, though”. Maybe VH-1 wouldn’t allow that observation. Then he starts talking about butter lips and they kiss and he’s talking about buttery lips to the camera and maybe he’s trying to get kicked off on purpose. Otherwise, he and Pootie are probably going to be embarking on a cross-country killing spree in an area near you soon. Watch out.

There’s some horseplay where they try to shave Boston’s head. It’s boring mainly because they don’t do it. Moving on…

It’s 12 Pack’s turn for some New York. She says she’s going to teach him some “Ton-tric” sex moves. Ok, it’s just her accent. Is that a New York accent. I don’t think so. I live four hours from NYC and I’ve never head anyone from there pronounce words like that. You can tell 12 Pack is already on his way to being shittoed. I would be too if I was in that sitch. As they go up to her bedroom, New York tells 12 Pack she likes him a lot. He replies “I do, too”. And he means himself. Anyway, inside New York’s bedroom is a pot-bellied freaky Suzanne Sommers-type tantric sex instructor. She’s there to teach them about tantric love-making. Great. 12 Pack has his blu blockers on because he’s drunk. Suzanne Sommers gives New York and 12 Pack tantric sex outfits to change into. 12 Pack gets some spandex leapord squarecuts to wear. They’re very clingy and he looks like a male stripper but I’m still into it. Fuck it, I like a little cheese now and then. He likes to swagger around in em’. I’m feeling it.

New York and 12 Pack are put through some tantric exercises. Suzanne Sommers wants them to feel each other on a more than physical level. Please leave, Suzanne. New York says that she finds the tantric lady to “weird” and that she feels that she wants her and 12 Pack sexually. Oh like you haven’t before, and there were cameras then too, and the only difference was that money changed hands. 12 Pack leaves to piss. Man, those cakes look good in that spandex. God, I’m pathetic. He goes downstairs to get some more hooch as well because he’s going to need to be as drunk as possible for this nightmare. While down there, Real and Heat are like – what the hell is going on up in there? So they use those terrifying doghouses to boost Real up to the BALL-cony to spy on New York and 12 Pack. I like when Real pauses in his spying to gulp the left-over champagne and eat some nibbles that were left. There’s some weirdness when Real is caught. Heat put down the Newports. Guys who carry cigarette packs around as accessories are struggling. 12 Pack camera brags that he’s the one in a speedo and he’s with New York. I don’t know if either one is something to brag about. It sounds more like a fraternity hazing. But I’m still feeling it.

After the date, 12 Pack and his boyfriend Heat stay up and get CRUNK. Like 12 Pack is taking his pin out and doing the robot drunk. They end up unintelligible in the backyard and Heat starts hitting on 12 Pack, saying he has the best body in the house. Oh oh. Unfortunately, for all of you not in the know, this is a common occurrence among straight white men. Some of my best friends are straight white men and they feel compelled when they’re drinking together to let loose with admiration and homosexual undercurrents because being shitfaced drunk is a safe zone. If the drunk guy in question is also slightly experimental, it’s a safe bet that there could be some kissage and possibly a circle jerk that will be conveniently forgotten in the morning. It happens, ladies. Watch your men. Anyway, 12 Pack and his butt boy are up til’ da break o’ dawn. Been there, done that. When the sunlight pierces into your head like an axe and all you can taste is stale booze and cigarettes. The worst.

And of course, Sister Patterson wakes everyone’s ass up to go to church. And Heat and 12 Pack are still drunk, those scamps. Heat is screaming for some vitamin C. 12 Pack is wearing a pink baseball cap that says “Party King”. I bet. The men get dressed for worshipping whatever demonic overlord Sister Patterson genuflects to. Chance is wearing a do-rag and a baseball cap. Sister Patterson tries to put the kibosh on it but it’s a no go and she refuses to fight on a Sunday. Wow, she must be really religious. Chamo is passing out bibles and looks like the guy who molested me at the tent revival. New York and Sister Patterson ride with Mr. Boston. He talks about how he’s ok with light-skinned black girls but his family wouldn’t really be down with a very dark girl. Oh lord. He also lets fly with the theory that if he had a really dark baby, it would lighten up over time. Oh lord. STOP REPRESENTING MY AREA. New York tells him to drink his retarded water so he can shut his retarded mouth.

Heat is shit-faced and passing out in church. Chance sits outside, acting like a spoiled lil’ kid who won’t take his hat off. Is it a bad weave day or something? Mr. Boston is trying to dance along with the other worshippers and it’s a horrorshow. Sister Patterson is crying, and then she takes the mike and starts talking about how her feet led her there (her feet and the VH-1 producers) and then she starts HOWLING. It calls Chance in, with his hat off. His hair looks fine. Vain bitch. Onix is rolling his eyes, he thinks Sister is faking it. This will bite him in his muscular ass in the end. New York looks terribly bored, so has probably seen her mother do this speaking in tongues thing before and much too often. When she’s done spewing, Chance hugs her and Sister tells us that she’s not sure if he was just trying to score points. And that she still doesn’t like him.

The men hang out in the pool, and Onix digs his own master’s degree grave by doubting Sister Patterson’s veracity in front of Rico and Tango. And Cash. Ok, there’s no Cash. But there should be. Anyway, it’s a howl when both Rico and Tango confer about telling New York and playing the game. And they both say they don’t want to be snitches and then one nanosecond later their wish to not snitch has evaporated and they’re HAULING ASS to tell New York about mouthy Onix and his judgey behavior.

Line-up. Everyone’s nervous. Sister Patterson looks like some sort of Vegas dancer mother-in-law in a black feather boa concoction. Heat is talking about butter kisses. Wackjob. Onix is told he’s been caught out there and Sister Patterson’s grin is as wife as the very oceans. New York tells Onix to “raise up” and get out. And when she says he’s not good enough for her, he replies “no, I’m better”. SNAP! New York screams that he’s talking out his ass and raise up but he kinda owned her. Oh, and Heat’s gone too. And this time crazy is useless because New York tells him to say hi to Ya Ya for her. HAH! Heat feels disrespected but he takes his crazy butter lips and goes home. Thank you. He was skeeving me out. Recreational drugs should be fun, not scary.

Mr. Boston is staying and New York makes out with him and he talks about the slippy slidey lip gloss he gets on her and I’m gonna puke. Can I go now?

Next – Basketball. New York has a muffin top. People spread grease on her. Blech.