The War Against Shitty Realtors: Comly Street Edition

Sometimes I can't help but admire how resourceful people of the Northeast are when it comes to unabashed, hateful acts of vengeance. For how dumb most of the schemes that go on here are that mostly result in embarassment and failure, sometimes these folk are straight up evil geniuses. My mother, C. A. Maguire happens to be a savant when it comes to these eye-for-an-eye type situations.

Let me preface this story for you first. My stepfather is a trucker. He has all kinds of weirdo stickers on his tool chest, like a depiction of an eagle dropping a swastika over the wrench drawer. He has a handle bar mustache, and used to be a road hog back in the day. Anyway, when he is off the road, he parks this 18-wheeler monster in a shared driveway, which is currently shared with a house up for sale, as the old bat next door who yelled at me for making chalk art in the backyard finally fucking croaked.

Granted, the realtor who is in charge of marketing the place is a real fucking dick. He scams the poor and stupid all the time, so I'm not arguing with my mom when it comes to this one. I have a little sister who is at the age that she will soon be BLOSSOMING into a young lady, and if he sold it to some predatory scumfuck I would probably set arson to the place; so I get it.

Anyway, the dude reported the truck being parked to the PPA sometime yesterday, and they came out at 11:45 PM to leave the ticket. To my family, who are people of a certain disposition, this basically means all out war. At first, some mild deterrents were implemented; namely some grafitti and hanging a rebel flag in our side window. But now that he has set out his first line of offense, retaliation is in order.

So my mom tries to flood their basement, but the dumb hose is bent or the water line sucks or something so that doesn't work. So what does she decide to retaliate with? PANCAKE SYRUP.

She broke their basement window and poured pancake syrup all around the window and let it drip inside to the floor. Within like two days, that basement is going to be chock full of cockroaches, waterbugs, and those evil little thousand-legger guys. I don't even think I have any other comments about this awesome act of belligerence, except that this some kid-era Macaulay Culkin shit and that my mom is pure fucking vengeful genius. Jesus Christ I hope I inherited that trait whenever I need to exact revenge on some dumb idiot in the future.

Fuck-ups and Corrections.

In order to collect data and material for this particular cultural investigation, I found it is absolutely imperative to properly reimmerse myself in a daily Northeast Philadelphian routine. So I started taking Xanax. Tons and tons of XANY BAHHRRS. This unfortunate truth, two and a half years of art school and the fact that I am native to Northeast Philadelphia (and therefore completely savage in some respects) explains why my grammar was absolutely fucking atrocious in the last entry. I guess Catholic school really didn't do shit after all.

Shants: Short Pants That Look Fucking Ridiculous

Since the name of this blog is SHANTS, I intend on a running a recurring theme which will require taking photos of whatever candid shant encounters I have. However, as not to isolate the uneducated viewer, I will explain the specifics conditions and guidelines that govern an authentic shants experience. While shants can be sighted amid many different subcultures, we will be focusing on shant usage in the context of Northeast Philadelphia Caucasian Jackass.

To the right is a depiction of a typical pair of shants one would wear to say, a date to the food court at Franklin Mills Mall. In this example, the subtle lift in the length of the shant exposes just enough leg to flatter the typically tiny ankles of men in the Northeast; even the rotund variety. Notice that shants in Northeast Philadelphia tend to only expose the ankle and about 1/6 of the lower calf. This is a case of the "long shant"; this nearly-pants occurrence is often utilized in a typical Northeast Philadelphia mating ritual. Often the male, in peacock fashion, will impress the female with his refined choice of footwear. Depending on the tastes of the individual, the shoe choice generally ranges between the shittiest, smelliest pair of white or black Reebok Classics and more pricey options, like a limited pair of Air Force IIs (not always authentic if purchased on the avenue) or perhaps a pair of classic Timberland boots with the attached "tree" tag still intact. In most cases, the female will be inclined to give in to a sloppy Xanax-driven titty-fuck when the male flaunts a higher end choice of footwear; a prime example of Northeast natural selection.

Another condition that defines the Northeast Philadelphia Shant is the medium wash on the jean and tendency to be more saturated in color. This property distinguishes the NEast shant from the South Philly Shant which carries a darker rinse, or the Muslim Shant which may vary between very light denim washes and completely non-jean materials.

Lastly, there needs to be intention in the choice of the shant itself; after all, shants in Northeast Philadelphia are employed by conscious decisions, representative of status among the common neighborhood hierarchy. High-water sweat pants adorning Frankford Terminal bums and schizophrenics are not an instances that constitute a pair of shants; nor does the usage of slightly high dress pants by Irish WWII babies attending a local Catholic Mass. The awareness factor, defiance against the laws of size and taste and the intention in place when one wears a pair of baggy-just-barely-too-short-pants are only two character traits that validate the fact that people from Northeast Philadelphia are simply nearly fucking retarded.

Northeast Philadelphia: A New Fashion Frontier

Due to a recent displacement, I moved back into my mom's house in Northeast Philadelphia, specifically the area deemed Wissinoming. Since a normal, soul-bearing person is usually smart enough to stay out of the NEast, you may not be familiar with the area, as most individuals with some sense tend to not venture beyond Kensington or Port Richmond when heading in that direction. Since I find myself back at the old haunt not having anything to do because I'm broke and as of late a social invalid, I would like to dedicate my time, disposable cameras and enthusiasm to the hidden gems in fashion and culture that are, for lack of a better expression, diamonds in the rough.