2014 BEST HOUSING DEAL THE COFFIN STUDIO Top this, Tokyo! No one can …

Written by None - Do not Delete on . Posted in Best of Manhattan, Posts.

meta name=”generator” content=”Created with GLUON WebXPress 5.2″ />



Top this, Tokyo! No one can quite remember who invented the coffin
apartment. According to one legend, it was a Jersey City slumlord from the last century named Sagar
Gupta who discovered that he could fit in twice as many people if he made their apartments a fifth
as big. Other people say that it originated in late 20th-century Japan, though thanks to the Mt.
Fuji eruption of ’56, we may never know for sure.

The only thing we know with certainty is that a three-square meter coffin
studio in North Bushwick, Zone 12, remains the city’s best housing deal at $58,000 a month. With
no frills, no windows and no furniture, it’s beautiful in its simplicity: Push a button, and the
integral shower cleanses away bodily waste. Push another, and your clean-underwear-and-jumpsuit
storage bin opens up. A third puts you into cryogenic stasis until it’s time for your next work period.
True, you can’t fit a partner, but isn’t that what the built-in VR cranial jack is for?



An idea whose time has come. After reporting a momentary $1.3 trillion budget
surplus in the months following 2072’s fare increase to $397 per ride, the MTA, it’s reported, has
secretly purchased three John Deere Plasma Busters. According to sources, the machines would
be capable of silently and efficiently drilling a subway tunnel the length of 2nd Ave. over the course
of a lazy summer afternoon. This has led to the latest round of debate within the MTA regarding the
200-year-old proposal.

Citizens and businesses along 2nd Ave. seem confused about the idea,
and are in general opposed to it, arguing that any noticeable vibrations underfoot on that proposed
lazy summer afternoon could lead to fears of terrorist activity, and send would-be visitors and
customers over to 1st Ave. for a few hours.

The economy and local houseguest situation being what it is these days,
those fears are perhaps understandable. Others might argue that the ElectroMagnetic Skyway System
has made the very idea of continued work on the archaic and outmoded subway system a ridiculous waste
of money. But to us, the idea still sounds as fresh and exciting as it must have sounded when first
proposed two centuries ago. We strongly encourage the MTA to plasma-drill away. Perhaps when they
finish with that, they might get around to reconstructing the rest of the old subway system, much
of which remains devastated following the CHUD rebellion of 2077.



There used to be water under here. The city elders like to say the old Chelsea
Piers haven’t been the same since the 40-foot sea walls went up mid-century, but few would argue
that the SonyTronic Plaxadome doesn’t beat the old “natural” view. And even if we could still see
New Jersey, do we really want to look at the mammoth sewage treatment plants that currently cover
more than 80 percent of the state? May as well imagine an inhabitable Staten Island, we say, or romanticize
the terror-filled days of checkpoint-free excursions to Brooklyn. Ptah!

Not only is the SonyTronic view at the Diet Pepsi Piers the best in the
city, recent recreational additions solidify its rep as the best place to break the ice with a new
squeeze. The Laser Tag center now has the sharpest and most accurate lasers in town, the Soma refreshment
center offers everything from old-fashioned “iced-creams” (with non-radiated milk) to the widest
array of happy drugs on the market. For nostalgia junkies, there’s also the last non-hologram “baseball”
batting cages in the tri-state area. With all-day passes starting at $16,000, you really can’t
go wrong. (And don’t forget to have your State-Approved Breeding Card stamped for partial food-ration
reimbursement. If you’re eligible, of course.)



Will they ever have a daughter? New York Press archives show that
we’ve been howling against the Ratners since Eternal Giuliani was mortal. And it’s always been
for the same reason: We’re sick of subsidizing their private and universally doomed business ventures.
We underwrote his great-grandaddy’s Atlantic Center mall and Nets stadium (remember them? Franchise
record 12 wins, 428 losses?), his grandaddy’s new Hotel of Freedom on the newly privatized Central
Park (opened in 2026, sold to Trump for pennies two years later) and his father’s failed attempt
to store nuclear waste in Old Harlem. Now here comes along the youngest Ratner, asking the city to
float a bond worth $1.9T, just to throw a private birthday party for himself and his socialite friends,
some of whom will be flown in from neighboring galaxies just for the weekend. Ratner IV says the party
will create thousands of jobs for New Yorkers and generate millions in spin-off activity, but given
his family’s record of failed enterprises at taxpayer expense, why should we believe him?




Time for his Eternal Hizzoner’s chop shop? It seems recent advances
made by the Beatrice Corporation in plasmatival bioelectronics have yet to be applied to Mayor
Eternal Giuliani, whose DNA circuitry continues, obviously at times, to operate at 2089 levels.

During a vidaddress regarding the latest diet manifesto broadcast
to all 1.5 million residents of the Central Snapple Park Estates last winter, the Mayor Eternal
announced that, as of that moment, “the flying fish in stock malevolence bleeeed mal-mal-mal 001
010011 0111001…bread down to rat-a-tat-tattage.” The Mayor Eternal then enigmatically pointed
a finger at his nose and nodded vigorously before signing off.

Before the corrected statement could be broadcast later that afternoon,
more than 12,000 of the housing complex’s loyal and honorable residents attempted to follow the
Mayor Eternal’s latest decree to the letter, resulting in 7016 fatalities.

Although this made the waiting list of those hoping for space in CPE much
shorter, we still pray the Mayor Eternal’s maintenance crew took it as a sign that a firmware upgrade
is long overdue.



The park has spoken. We should be beyond getting bothered by this sort of stuff,
but we couldn’t help notice that Central Snapple Park Estates (the lower level) came out in support
of Trump this year. Not that we didn’t mind strolling through the lots and hearing the random pronouncements
of his foreign-, domestic- and outer-policy skills, or the fact that he branded all the flowers
and fountains, or the suggestions from clumps of grass, we just wondered—what happens if
he loses?



Recharge here often? Any horny teenager with a $1500 credit chip, a bit of
courage and his parents’ laser saw can go slumming in the tunnel clubs and get some easy mutant sex,
but with reports of airborne AIDSARS TR-X floated around under most downtown quadrants, those
days may be numbered. But don’t worry—the trans-human sex party is just getting started.

Microsoft’s just-released 2105 line of cyborgs are some of the most
realistic and friendly booty bots yet. Their Syntak skin feels almost real and they actually breathe
and sweat with consistency. Most important, they’ve wised up and gotten rid of the standard Gates
voice chip. Now both male and female models come with several unique voices.

Perhaps the best improvement is the prototypical sense of humor installed
with the latest upgrade suite. Take the other night for instance. We were talking with this fine
young technotrannie at Mars Bar—quickly becoming a favorite with the new ‘borgs—when
we accidentally spilled a shot of pure rain water on its lap. Whereas the 2101 model would have mistaken
this for a sign of aggression and smacked us across the face before emitting a ear-drum destroying
microwave pitch, this one—named “Casey”—looked down and said in a clear attempt
at making light, “It looks as if I released human urine into my own garments, does it not?”

She wasn’t smiling when she said it, and the tone was way off, but it’s
a start.



Fully tanked on gas. Can it even be called a fad anymore? Perhaps not, given
it was over 40 years ago that the last local establishment that still served alcohol in liquid form
closed its dreary doors for good. It was hardly worth noting at the time, of interest only to historians,
the rare tourist and stubborn elderly alcoholics.

It’s hard to remember—and for those citizens under 40, of course,
impossible to remember—a time when there was even an alternative to inhaling vaporized
alcohol. And now when you think about it, who in their right minds would want to be bothered with ingesting
alcohol (or morphine, or any of the other inhalable narcotics on the market today) the old-fashioned
way? Why not return to old-fashioned flush toilets? Or to lighting our homes by burning fossil fuels?

When AWOL machines first appeared on the New York market exactly 100
years ago, they were ridiculed by intellectuals and those who cling to the Old Ways as simply another
fad, of interest only to young people who deliriously attach themselves to anything new. The young
people, they insisted, would quickly grow bored and return to the ancient ways of intoxicating
themselves. But how wrong they were. Interestingly, at the time, AWOL machines could only be found
at taverns.

The history of AWOL’s almost immediate and complete dominance of both
New York City’s nightlife and daylife scenes—despite the vigorous efforts on the parts
of some to stop it—is of course well-documented. The people recognized an important cultural
development and embraced it.

With the passage of the government’s Obligatory Intoxication Act of
2096, stating that all citizens must remain in some state of inebriation at all times, the AWOL machines
became as common a sight on the streets as micro-Cartesian computers and ClearChan pay-per-sim
holographic concert kiosks. Everyone just strapped one on their backs and breathed happy all day.

Why even detail it all, when it’s such common knowledge? And face it—you’ve
got an AWOL strapped to your back right now, and probably can’t even focus on these words. So why are
we bothering? Let’s just say “lids aplenty!” to AWOL—the fad that wouldn’t go away!


A.A. 103

Never forget. Most historians trace the beginnings of the Glorious Era of
Happy Security and Friendship back a magnificent 103 years, to a date which at the time was known
as “Nine Eleven.” Why it is referred to in such a manner is presently unclear, though it is suspected
it was derived either from a complex and arcane mathematical system long since forgotten; or perhaps
a once-popular “convenience store” where “foodstuffs” were sold in individual portions to be
then consumed orally—if you can imagine such barbarism.

As it ever has, this year’s mandatory public celebration of our invulnerability
and contentment far outshone the 400 other mandatory celebrations observed in New York each year.
After the morning’s traditional calisthenics and Hour of Anguish (this year’s wailing and teeth-gnashing
were particularly extravagant), all citizens waited patiently and silently outside their homes
for the annual DNA donation, the recitation of the loyalty oath and the compulsory 10-minute self-flagellation,
all overseen by the Mayor Eternal.

The evening, as always, ended on a celebratory note with the Orgy of Respect,
in which all citizens regardless of age or gender are required to have Homage Sex with at least one
member of the FDNY or NYPD.

For many citizens, however, the most anticipated event of the 103rd
Anno Attacki Celebration came the following morning, when any citizen who has publicly admitted
that he or she hates his or her freedom by refusing to participate in the celebration is vaporized
in the West Side Olympic Stadium. The overbooking for this year’s event led to some minor rioting
outside the stadium, but even that had a bright side, as it resulted in still more vaporizations
to be enjoyed by those lucky few with the sense to arrive early.

   There are hundreds of public events we enjoy each
year, but only this one gives us all the chance to say “We Thank You Most Humbly” to the glorious men
and women who make sure that we feel safe each and every day. Inter-corporation wars may still be
raging across the rest of the country and in every other nation on Earth, but we can still rest assured
that so long as we remain within the generous and loving bosom of New York, and continue to obey the
rules, we have nothing to worry about.



Blessed be the sta