The Daily Dump

A place where everyone (me) is welcomed to express their opinions openly and honestly. I encourage free thinking, free wheeling, off-the-cuff banter and monetary donations.

Thursday, September 15

Why Is There A Whore On My Stoop?

Memo to the prostitute sitting on my stoop this morning:


Why are you on my stoop smoking a menthol cigarette at 9:15am? I understand it’s a lovely day, and my stoop is a fine stoop. I’ve been known to sit on my stoop from time to time, drinking scotch, muttering comments about the passersby just as they are out of earshot. But where did you come from with your hot pink accessories smelling of burnt tires? I had to step around you like a large box of dry goods sitting unpacked in a grocery store aisle. Is that any way to start a day?

Now, don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I don’t respect your profession. I do. In fact, I was once solicited by a hooker who was driving around in a black SUV. (That’s how you should go about it!) She pulled up next to me as I was walking down a dark side road and said, “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I answered.

“Want some company?” she asked. I could tell she was a hooker, though, because she had on lots of jewelry and was listening to Madonna. So I said no. But I look back fondly on the experience because I know it will probably be the only time in my life that I get hit on, which feels good whether it is business related or not.

So you see, it’s not that I have anything against whores. I loved “Leaving Las Vegas.” I love drunks too. And who knows, you may have been drunk as well, but the point is whores on my stoop is where I have to draw the line. This is the upper east side. We can’t have hookers hanging around on stoops. There are children, babies in this neighborhood whose immune systems aren’t fully developed yet. They deserve the right to dictate the terms by which they first encounter a hooker, whether it be a bachelor party or mix-up with a disputed charge at a Korean massage parlor.

It is a known fact that all of God’s children are unique and special, even the ones who trade sex acts for drugs. But even when the stress of fornicating for a living weighs on you to the point where all you can do is light a cigarette, hold your head in your hands and wonder what bad choices in your life got you here (Was it the crack? Was it the internet dating?), there’s something very important you have to remember: a stoop is a very special place. It’s an entrance into one’s home. And unfortunately, I’ve got bigger things to think about here than a social conscience or so-called grace; like property values and a disease free stoop.

So next time, please move two stoops down to the building that smells like cheese.

Thank you.

P.S. If, by some chance, you were not a prostitute – I suggest you consider changing your style. Because you really look like a prostitute.

3 Comments:

Where the hell else was I going to stay when you stiff me (no pun intended) on your tab?!

By Anonymous Your Friendly Neighborhood Whore, at 5:10 PM  

haha - That's a class act.

We've legalised prostitution in NZ. Oh yay :|

By Blogger Kate, at 6:09 PM  

I wonder if she was related to the hooker I saw get cuffed while I was waiting in the drive through lane at popeyes?

By Blogger Ms. Hamilton, at 9:16 AM  

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