We followed Google Maps all the way to the Manhattan Bridge, then looked up to see a derelict old building where the dumpling stand should have been. Letters on the front said “East Broadway Mall.”

It was a deserted, graffiti-covered relic sitting under the bridge, and had obviously fallen into disrepair long ago.

“Maybe the dumplings are in this mall,” suggested Robert, sounding hopeful.

“Are we sure this place isn’t condemned?” I asked.

We found one door that didn’t have a “Please use other door” sign taped to it and went inside.

It smelled like urine and cigarettes, and cardboard laid strewn across the ground in the threshold like a makeshift welcome mat. Stained and broken ceiling tiles hung like dirty stalactites.

The entire mall seemed to be abandoned, except for a few shops here and there selling God knows what.

We searched the empty halls but hardly even found another living person, much less a dumpling stand.

The only sign that the mall was still operational was what appeared to be an ever-growing “wall of shame” where management printed off photos of people who had broken various rules and were not allowed back in the mall.

One of these posters in particular caught my eye.

My first thought was that I doubt the police actually agreed to this arrangement.

My second thought was wow there’s literally poop in this photo.

We continued wandering through the eerie mall until we came to a staircase which led to the basement. I was beginning to feel uneasy, but we were hungry and descended the stairs anyway, ready to face whatever horrors awaited us at the bottom.

That’s when we saw it: in the basement of the world’s most disgusting mall, a bun and dumpling stand with a line of normal-looking people.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Where had all these people come from?

It seems that the only reason anyone came into this mall, besides to defecate on the floor, was to buy steamed buns and dumplings from Fu Zhou Wei Zhong Wei.

A few years back I wrote Rat Report Dining: Lovable Shitholes, a think piece in which I posit that bad vibes generally correlate with good food. And it would appear that we had unwittingly stumbled upon the holy grail of awful vibes inside this godforsaken shopping center.

Robert got in line and asked me what I wanted. I glanced at the menu on the wall.

“I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” I told him.

We each got buns and dumplings, which was a ton of food (I could only eat half of it) for $10 per person! And they were good!

So how was our experience at the East Broadway Mall? Google user Matteo Casellini summed it up nicely:

I also noticed certain photos in the Google reviews which show a sign displaying the URL for the Fu Zhou Wei Zhong Wei website.

And to save you the fifteen minutes you’d spend typing that url into your browser, I’ve done it for you here —> https://fuzhouweizhongwei.gbiz.shop/

According to their website:

“Nestled in a truly unique location, we offer a culinary experience that is both a taste of home and a delightful adventure.”

This experience was a good reminder to always look for the good in things. No matter how rotten and shitty a situation appears, there may be some tiny redeeming quality tucked away like a delicious dumpling stand hidden deep within the bowels of a horrific shopping center.

And while the scenery wasn’t great, spending time with my friends and discovering new food in a nightmare of a mall was in fact, in the words of Fu Zhou Wei Zhong Wei, “a delightful adventure.”

But how can this be? you must be asking yourself. The author doesn’t seem like a Burning Man person!

Well this year, the author was coerced by his friends (recall the debauched veterinarian who ate a sandwich he found in the subway) to attend.

“The key to Burning Man is stocking up on canned fish,” he told me while leading me through the aisles of a Walmart in Reno.

He began filling his basket with cans of tuna while I, seeking more variety, grabbed a few cans of ‘Salmon Filet with Mixed Vegetables.’

“Oooh,” he crooned, peering into my basket. “You’re going for the fancy stuff!”

For dessert he bought a few cans of smoked oysters - a delicacy, he assured me.

Once we had stocked up on the necessary provisions we drove out to the desert to get in the Burning Man line. The line opened at midnight and we spent the next seven hours inching through the dusty night in stop-and-go traffic.

When we finally reached the front of the line at 7 am, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Just as the sun was coming up over the mountains, I caught my first glimpse of a sprawling metropolis made of tarps and garbage that stretched as far as the eye could see. This temporary shanty town in the desert, or “Black Rock City,” as the Burners know it, was hastily constructed to house tens of thousands of people for a few days, and would completely disappear just as quickly when it was time for everyone to go home.

But as we drove through the streets we noticed that the entire city was in disarray. A powerful dust storm had ravaged the area while we had been waiting in line, blowing away or destroying most of the tarp shelters.

It was early, and the Burners were beginning to stir. They could be seen emerging from lopsided tents or crawling out from under what remained of their crude tarp dwellings, taking stock of the wreckage.

Not even the fabled “orgy dome” was spared from the storm’s wrath.

The once-proud orgy dome had been reduced to a pile of dusty rubble. A sign nearby read “Orgy Dome Closed.”

It was probably for the best; the last thing we needed was a dome full of unwashed Burning Man people having a drug-fueled orgy and spawning strains of bacteria that don’t even exist yet. It is my personal belief that the next great pandemic will originate not in a secret lab or an open-air market, but rather in the orgy dome at Burning Man.

After assessing the state of their leveled city, the Burners got to work collecting wayward tarps and repairing their structures. By the next day Black Rock City had been restored to what I’m told was its former glory, even though it all still looked like storm debris to me.

Exploring the twists and turns of the tarp city was an incredible experience, but it was the inhabitants of Black Rock City that really made the place special. I met several wonderful people, from complete strangers to members of my camp, who kept the experience interesting.

One night, a member of our camp drew this picture to try to explain the drugs he was on.

We weren’t sure what any of this means but he was having a crazy time.

Another member of our camp took the same drugs and spent the next eight hours curled up in a ball.

When we finally coaxed him out of his tent at 4 am with a grilled cheese he emerged, wide-eyed and disheveled, to inform us that he had spent the past several hours talking to a “big, ugly… military toad.”

I don’t know what that means so I asked AI to generate an image.

A different day, a man walked by our camp and asked where the nearest restrooms were.

“Right down there,” I told him, pointing to a bank of porta potties down the road, “but they’re all out of hand sanitizer.”

“That’s okay,” the man replied, “I’m just looking for somewhere to fuck this guy I just met.”

After a week of use, the porta potties weren’t the most romantic option, but they were conveniently located every couple blocks.

After sitting in the dirt and using restrooms like these for a week, one begins to yearn for a shower.

“Is there anywhere to shower here?” I asked my friend.

“I know just the thing,” he replied through a mouthful of smoked oysters. “Follow me.”

I followed him to a sort of “human carwash” where everybody gets naked and walks into a box where they get hosed down with soap and water. After getting rinsed off, everybody exits into a nude dance party to air dry, thrilled to finally be clean for the first time in days (or, judging by the looks of some of them, the first time all year).

I felt as though this “human carwash” was my unofficial baptism into Burning Man life, with the soap and water rinsing away whatever shreds of decency I still clung to, as I relinquished my hopes of returning to a civilized life and fully embraced my transformation into a disgusting desert person.

I had been born again as a Burner.

Hold on, Jake, you might be thinking to yourself. Rat Report is supposed to be about New York City!

First of all, please know that I now only respond to my playa name: Rat Bait.

Second of all, you’re right, so I’ve decided to compare and contrast Burning Man with New York.

Similarities

1. Dirty

2. Bottles of urine strewn about

3. Depraved men having sex in porta potties

Key Differences

1. Dust storms where all the structures fly away

2. Giant wooden “man” statue that is set ablaze

3. Only one person got murdered

Burning Man is a fun adventure that will completely transform you, for better or for worse (usually worse). Sure, some parts of Burning Man could be improved, like porta potties filled with muck, orgy dome super bacteria, and some intolerable characters that make you wonder how only one murder took place all week. But for all its imperfections, I met some great people and had a lot of fun.

Until next year’s Burning Man, xoxo,

Rat Bait

But as I walked by, I realized that it was open. There just wasn’t anything inside.

It turns out this purple box is called “Surprise Scoop,” and is an ice cream shop where you pay a machine in exchange for a mystery scoop of ice cream.

First, you walk in and pay at a kiosk on the wall.

Next, you wait for your ice cream like you’re at the DMV.

I felt the anticipation build as I waited. What would my flavor be?

My friend (the veterinarian) checked the place out a few days prior and reported that he received “some green rice flavored bullshit.”

When I asked him what green rice was, he explained simply that “it was bright green and tasted like I had my head in a bag of rice and was huffing the fumes.”

I checked Google to see what others were saying.

I’ve never had anything leave such an unpleasant taste in my mouth that it ruined my entire evening, but then again, I’ve never had “everything bagel” flavored ice cream.

I just… what?

Suddenly my friend’s “green rice flavored bullshit” didn’t sound so bad after all. I can imagine no greater middle finger to a customer willing to try a surprise ice cream shop than giving them a fistful of ice cream covered in Flaming Hot Cheetos.

What the hell was going on behind that window, anyway? Was the shop run by some sort of hunchback with a passion for ice cream, or a disfigured Phantom of the Opera-type character who didn’t want to be seen by the world?

Could they not afford ice cream scoops, or did they just like the feeling of ice cream squishing between their fingers as they grabbed a handful and dropped it into a dish?

The anticipation was killing me. There is no thrill greater than knowing you may have just paid $10 for a single scoop of everything bagel ice cream covered in red Cheeto crumbs and fingerprints.

You’re completely at the mercy of a stranger on the other side of the wall, like some sort of perverse ice cream glory hole.

Suddenly, the mysterious panel slid open.

At long last, my ice cream appeared.

I think one of them was some sort of chocolate, and the other was strawberry. Honestly, they were both pretty good and didn’t appear to be shaped by hand.

Could I have gone somewhere else with better ice cream for less money? Probably. But remember, you’re paying for the thrill of maybe hating whatever they give you, and that’s worth every penny.

Last May the Central Park Conservancy (the non-profit organization responsible for the maintenance of Central Park) unveiled a new type of trash can specifically designed for pizza boxes. Apparently New Yorkers were having trouble fitting square garbage into a round hole.

"The traditional circular waste bins are simply not designed to accommodate the boxes,” explained Central Park Conservancy spokesperson Kat Brady.

The entire project seems as if it were suggested to poke fun at pizza-eating New Yorker stereotypes, but was then executed by someone who didn’t realize it was a joke.

Not to be outdone by the Central Park Conservancy, the Eric Adams administration quickly followed suit and rolled out nearly identical pizza box garbage cans at other parks cross the city at a price of $950 each as part of the Mayor’s war on rats.

The special pizza box garbage cans are alleged to be rat-proof somehow, even though they kind of look like they were designed specifically for rats to get inside.

"Pizza Rat will find no quarter in city parks soon enough, thanks to these pizza-ready trash cans," said Meera Joshi, deputy mayor for operations, in a bizarre statement that clearly was not reviewed by anybody.

I thought back to the Department of Sanitation’s mascots (recall our friends: Leif the lawn trimming bag, Scrappy the compost bin, Patty Paper, and our favorite, “Bobby” the bucket of generic recycling shit, all pictured below).

It only seemed fair that since we have a new type of trash receptacle, we also design a new mascot to represent it to the public.

Introducing Lil’ Frankie Pizza, the pizza box… box. Lil’ Frankie Pizza loves the Sopranos and is a DJ on the weekends.

One has to admire the genius of the new receptacles; I don’t know how the city survived before the invention of the pizza box garbage can. How were we not drowning in pizza boxes? It’s a “New York” solution to a uniquely “New York” problem.

I began thinking about other types of trash one finds in unusually high concentrations in New York City that might also require a unique type of trash container. If you’re like me, you immediately thought of flattened rat carcasses that often appear on busy streets around the city.

Now I’m just brainstorming here, but what about those boxes you put cards in at weddings?

They’re available on Amazon for the low price of $35.59, and the slot at the top is perfectly shaped given the flattened nature of the rodents.

The traditional circular waste bins are simply not designed to accommodate flattened rat carcasses, after all.

After several design iterations, we’re proud to introduce Ralph, the rodent carcass container.

Its slot is perfectly suited to the contours of the two-dimensional rodent, and its clear sides make it easy for sanitation officials to know when it’s full.

If we put such containers on street corners around the city, New Yorkers would finally have a place to deposit flattened rat carcasses, which has been a pervasive issue plaguing New Yorkers for as long as they have been eating pizza.

Of course I didn’t believe them, so I decided to do some research. Some preliminary searches revealed that Earth Church (sometimes stylized as EARTHCHXRCH) is a meeting place and performance space for Reverend Billy and his “Stop Shopping Choir,” an environmental activism group that also sings.

I had seen some of their literature around the East Village and decided to give them a visit.

I walked to Earth Church; it more closely resembled a Spirit Halloween store than any church I had ever seen.

Unfortunately, it seems that the Earth Church space shut down in November of 2024. But as luck would have it, I would soon discover another way to see Reverend Billy in action: he was putting on a live musical called Extinction at the Public Theater.

I quickly secured tickets and attended the first showing.

The theater, though small, was oddly packed. The Stop Shopping Choir sang a few songs to kick things off, but the one person I wanted to see most wasn’t on stage.

Suddenly, a spotlight illuminated a man standing in the back of the room who slowly started walking through the audience amid cheers and excited whispers of “that’s him! That’s Reverend Billy!”

He had gray hair and was wearing a gleaming white suit like Colonel Sanders. He threw his hands toward the heavens and shouted “Earthaluja!” like a southern Baptist minister. “Earthaluja, Amen!”

The audience went wild.

“It turns out,” he said into the microphone as he sauntered toward the stage, slowly looking around the room, “groups that risk arrest together sure can sing together! We risk arrest together at JP Morgan Chase all the time!”

More applause. He climbed up on stage.

“We protest at all the banks that fund fossil fuel production, but JP Morgan Chase is our favorite,” he explained.

According to Wikipedia Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir don’t only protest at JP Morgan Chase, but also visit other locations of interest including Trump Tower, Monsanto facilities, and Disney stores.

In fact, Reverend Billy began his protesting career in 1998 outside the Times Square Disney store where he was arrested multiple times after duct taping Mickey Mouse to a cross and proclaiming him to be the anti-christ.

Reverend Billy has racked up over 50 arrests in total, several of which occurred at various Starbucks locations where he and his followers tried to exorcise the demons of capitalism by “laying their hands on the cash registers, weeping, and harmonizing.” In 2002 Starbucks reportedly issued instructions to workers at New York City Starbucks locations entitled “What Should I do If Reverend Billy Is in My Store?”

After one particularly heated protest at JP Morgan Chase (after which Rev. Billy was promptly arrested), the bank manager gave a statement to police stating that Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir were "running about the bank while wearing frog masks … jumping on to the bank's furniture, running about the bank, and screaming loudly at others for a number of minutes." The manager said that he thought the bank was being robbed and that bank employees cried.

The performance continued; it wasn’t as much of a musical with a story or a plot as much as it was just the Stop Shopping Choir singing songs about nature and extinction with occasional shouts of “Earthalujah!” and parables from Rev. Billy.

Then Rev. Billy pulled out a wildcard. “We need to think about what we’re leaving for the children. I want to baptize a child in the Church of Stop Shopping today!”

The spotlight lit up a nervous-looking child in the audience.

“Everybody shout out what you want for this child!”

Audience members shouted things like “clean air and water,” “whales,” and “world peace.”

Rev. Billy loved “world peace.” He threw his hands in the air and shouted “Can I get a peacealujah?”

After the performance he flung open the doors to the theater and strode out to the lobby, crooning “Free books! Free books!”

The “books” in question were copies of “The Earthalujah Manifesto.”

The manifesto was a collection of ramblings in the style of Unabomber, comprising unbound pages in a manila envelope. Special care was taken, including the use of “Courier” font, to make it appear as though the manifesto were typed up in a shack in the woods.

So who is Reverend Billy? A hero? A menace? A cult leader? All of the above?

The first page of the Earthalujah Manifesto specifically states “We are not a cult,” so that answers the cult question.

I think Reverend Billy is just an impassioned performer masquerading as a preacher man hell-bent on saving the planet, even if he has to spend a little time in jail after terrifying some baristas or bank employees.

And while you won’t find me protesting at JP Morgan Chase in a frog mask, I’m glad someone out there hates fossil fuels and Mickey Mouse enough for the rest of us.

Keep it up, Reverend Billy. Earthalujah!

The mayor famously hired a Rat Czar to help him wage war on rats, but apparently isn’t satisfied with current progress and has brought in outside help.

Enter McKinsey & Company, a firm which produces and sells slide decks.

The city paid McKinsey millions of dollars to work with the Department of Sanitation (whose mascots are a Rat Report fan favorite) to conduct a study on trash and its impact on cleanliness and rats.

The resulting deck, available here, features 95 official-looking slides replete with maps and graphs, and concludes that placing trash in bins is indeed a better idea than throwing trash on the ground.

It also addresses the challenges of containerization.

The discerning reader, like anyone else in the world, may be asking what the fuck “containerization” means.

Containerization is defined in the deck as “the storage of waste in sealed, rodent-proof receptacles.”

It’s a scientific-sounding way to say “put trash in bins,” but with more syllables.

“Hmm, containerization, huh? That’s good, write that down! That’s worth a million dollars right there!” said a McKinsey partner during a brainstorming session, probably.

The findings of the study spurred the mayor to hold a press conference where he blasted Empire State of Mind before gleefully dunking a prop trash bag into New York City’s first official trash bin, complete with latching lid to deter hungry rodents.

“Welcome,” said the mayor, “to our trash revolution.”

@storyful_viralNew York City Mayor Eric Adams announced the city’s next step in what has been dubbed its war on rats, by hailing a wheelie bin a “trash revolution”, much to the amusement of some social media users. #ericadams #ericadamsmayor #nycmayor #nyc #newyorkcity #fyp #foryoupage

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Mayor Adams stated that garbage bags on the sidewalk cause “just, really, total visual despair” and that the rats are “getting more and more bold, they no longer run from you, they just hang out and just do what they want.”

Terrified by the prospect of rats just hanging out and doing what they want, I reviewed the slide deck to learn how Mayor Adams and McKinsey plan to lead us to a containerized future.

Below are a few slides from the deck.

Slide 11 addresses the burning question on everyone’s mind: why does containerization matter?

The answer is threefold:

1. Rats

2. Pedestrian obstruction

3. Dirty streets

I can’t tell whether an intern doodled on this next slide in Microsoft Paint, or if the cube (the largest cubic foot ever drawn) and outline of Manhattan are important visual aids.

I decided to pick up where the intern left off and supplied additional doodles.

This slide converts the weight of trash produced daily in NYC to 140 Statues of Liberty. I imagine McKinsey’s interaction with the Department of Sanitation went something like this:

McKinsey: “New Yorkers leave out 44 MILLION pounds of waste every day!

Department of Sanitation: *shrug shoulders, look confused*

McKinsey: “That’s equal to the weight of 140 Statues of Liberty!”

Department of Sanitation: “Ahh, why didn’t you just say so? We know exactly how much that weighs now.”

A little-known fact is that New Yorkers actually measure things exclusively in units of Statues of Liberty.

My New York driver’s license lists my height and weight as 0.01976 and 0.00054 Statues of Liberty, respectively.

Real New Yorkers also know that the Statue of Liberty isn’t even that big; if anything, this stat makes me less impressed with the amount of trash we produce.

I also enjoyed this map of “collection zones.”

Did they need a map?

Could they have just said that everything is a collection zone except Central Park and the beach?

The deck is a lengthy read so I skimmed most of it, but I took solace in the fact that the greatest minds of our generation have figured out how New Yorkers could start putting trash in bins, and I’m excited to see what the future holds.

A Zoom happy hour, for those who don’t know, is a Covid-era innovation which stipulates that one sips an alcoholic beverage while looking at ones coworkers on a computer screen and smiling, usually until someone announces that they “need to drop.”

For a few months it was thought to be the next best thing given that a real happy hour was unthinkable due to Covid-19 and the swift death it would surely bring about.

But after a few minutes of a Zoom happy hour, one wonders whether a swift death would really be such a bad thing after all.

For years I thought that the Zoom happy hour was the dumbest possible use of video technology, but then I learned about the NYC Portal.

The portal stands in the Flatiron neighborhood of New York City and is essentially a large, circular Zoom to Dublin, Ireland. New Yorkers gather to look at Irish people on the screen, who in turn are looking back at the New Yorkers on their own portal screen. If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be an animal in the zoo, you might consider standing in front of the portal.

“This project exemplifies the fusion of technology and engineering to bring communities from across the world closer together,” declared the Lord Mayor of Dublin, which is a real title and not a joke.

“Two amazing global cities, connected in real time and space. That is something you do not see every day!” responded Ya-Ting Liu, NYC’s Chief Public Realm Officer (also a real title).

The portal was temporarily disabled in May after people on the Dublin side displayed swastikas and images of the September 11th terrorist attacks (those rascals!) and, in response, “an OnlyFans model exposed her breasts to those in Dublin.”

It appears that the portal certainly has connected the two cities, just maybe not in the way the Lord Mayor and the Chief Public Realm Officer had imagined.

The portal is a rare example of technology finally being used for something positive, like transcending borders and physical distance to tease each other about terrorist attacks and flashing breasts, and that’s how we bring the world a little closer together.

I had never eaten rice pudding but have always been partial to sweet treats, so I begged my mom for money to give it a try. I tried the pudding but was sadly underwhelmed.

I would have never guessed that this pudding shop may have been harboring a dark secret.

Years went by and I returned to New York as an adult. Everything was different: different stores, different restaurants, different bakeries and coffee shops and apartments. Everything, that is, except for that futuristic rice pudding shop on Spring Street. And what’s more, I discovered that this rice pudding shop, called “Rice to Riches,” was expanding to the Lower East Side where it was opening its second location.

Who is buying this mediocre rice pudding? How is this place paying rent? And why is it “future” themed? I decided to investigate to learn more.

First I read the reviews.

The casual racism- a relic of the early 2000’s- was one common theme, but there was a second interesting theme: a number of different reviewers accused Rice to Riches of being a money laundering operation. I dug in for more information about the owner of the establishment, Peter Moceo Jr.

Peter founded Rice to Riches in 2001 after returning from Italy to his home in Trump Tower. According to a Trump Tower resident on Medium, “Pete arrived at Trump Towers with a glistening olive tan from his summer in Naples and a briefcase of cash.”

Things are already looking sus, but it gets worse.

In 2005 Moceo was arrested (along with his father, Peter Sr., and a Trump Tower concierge) for running a $21 million per year sports gambling ring. The DA at the time even alleged that Rice to Riches was launched with, and was used to launder, earnings from the gambling operation.

To top it all off, Moceo looks like a henchman from a Jason Statham movie.

When the NY Times asked Moceo’s lawyer, Raphael Scotto, whether his client was involved in organized crime, the lawyer replied, “I have to laugh, too many people watch ‘The Sopranos,’ so everyone thinks they’re half an expert on all this stuff, you know what I mean?” which I guess is how mob lawyers say “no comment.”

On an unrelated note, this cartoonish lawyer has also become known to crumple up subpoenas and toss them into the nearest trash receptacle. A judge wrote of Scotto, “this dramatic use of the trash bin to signify his scorn would become a signature move for him.”

Suddenly my childhood memories made more sense. The rice pudding wasn’t good because it didn’t need to be; it was simply being used to launder gambling proceeds. Or was it?

I decided to visit the new location for clues.

The first thing I noticed was a sign above the door which read “STUPID GOOD RICE PUDDING UP IN THIS BITCH!” which should have been my first clue to turn around and never come back.

The next thing I noticed was that the location was enormous, spotless, and empty.

The toppings had names like “Spirit,” “Unity,” and “Blessings,” and were collectively referred to as “Jesus Droppings.”

The rice pudding flavors had edgy names like “Oreo-gasm” and “Sex, Drugs, and Rocky Road.”

I thought that the Sex, Drugs, and Rocky Road flavor also looked like Jesus Droppings, but if Jesus suffered from IBS.

The branding was a confusing hodgepodge of futuristic, irreverent, urban yoga studio/crystal shop themes that left me scratching my head.

Then came time to order. Customers are allowed to sample three flavors. I tried three samples and wasn’t impressed with any, so I panic-picked a safe-sounding fourth flavor called “Understanding Vanilla” for some reason.

I got the smallest size which cost $10.50 and was packaged in a plastic flying saucer-shaped dish and came with a utensil which resembled some type of space-age shoehorn.

I brought it back to a friend’s apartment and popped the lid off to reveal the goop inside.

I then used the utensil to shovel some of the goop out of the flying saucer and into my mouth.

It had the flavor of frosting and the consistency of cottage cheese.

My friends all tried some too, with reactions ranging from “it’s okay” to “umm…” to “huh.”

So, is Rich to Riches a money laundering operation?

The fact that it’s remained in business for over 20 years selling what I consider to be a subpar product, combined with the fact that a million dollars in cash was seized from Moceo’s condo while gambling records were seized from Rice to Riches itself does not bode well. Factor in Pete’s physical appearance and we have what looks like an open and shut case.

But on the other hand, money laundering operations tend to keep a low profile and Rice to Riches is the most flamboyant and conspicuous business in lower Manhattan.

Additionally, Moceo has said in an interview before the arrest, “Ask my wife, I don’t sleep; I’m up all night thinking about rice pudding.”

I didn’t ask his wife, but I don’t think someone could utter that horrible quote if it wasn’t true.

While I would have chosen a more worthy dessert to lose sleep over, it sounds like Peter is up late at night mixing new flavors and scribbling on a blackboard while his wife tries to sleep, and I commend that dedication.

Plus, now that sports betting is legal in New York I’m not sure what he would be laundering, unless he has diversified into other criminal activities since his last brush with the law.

No, I believe that Pete is just a certified pudding freak and that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions based on his past indiscretions.

So is Peter guilty of money laundering? The jury is still out. But he is guilty of bad pudding and heinous branding, and that’s something we can all agree on.

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But others are just awful. I decided to take a closer look at these terrible little flyers and the people who hang them up.

This terrible little flyer was printed by some type of film student who was on the hunt for rich people to fund their thesis film. I’ll admit that this picture is old (you may have noticed the snow on the ground) and the QR code is sadly no longer active.

The flyer doesn’t reveal much about the film or the student, but I’m sure plenty of wealthy benefactors lined up to bankroll what was probably a terrible little film.

This terrible little flyer, taped to the exterior of Punjabi Deli, is advertising a 2018 Toyota Sienna (pictured below) for rent for the low price of 450!

I went undercover to learn more:

Unfortunately it was no longer available. I’d like to imagine that it’s currently being rented by a happy family and hauling kids to soccer practice.

Our final flyer, rather than advertising a film or a minivan, is advertising a local single.

It looks like Dan, a local artist, is looking for the perfect woman to become his new girlfriend and is taking a unique approach. He has decided to forgo dating apps but doesn’t want to leave anything to chance. His solution: a terrible little flyer hastily fixed to a streetlight with masking tape.

This approach fuses elements of old-school dating (email) with features of Bumble (where women have to message first) for a dating experience that is inconvenient yet still impersonal.

Dating apps are so shallow, our friend Dan must be thinking, I want the type of woman who will email a stranger after seeing a black and white mugshot that looks like it was printed at the local library.

The website is essentially identical to the flyer, but includes an ominous “1963 - ???” perhaps to remind women who are afraid of commitment that he won’t be around forever.

Hurry ladies, prove that YOU are the perfect woman by sending Dan an email before he expires.

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Coincidentally, a few weeks back my friends and I found ourselves at a taxidermy drag show, an event which seamlessly blends drag queens and dead cats for a night of macabre entertainment.

It’s exactly what it sounds like: picture American Idol but instead of singing, the contestants are displaying dead animal artwork to the judges, and instead of commercial breaks the competition is punctuated by drag performances.

The taxidermy competition kicked off with a piece featuring two disheveled cats.

“Wow, what a beautiful piece,” crooned the announcer, who was wearing a top hat with a dead bird attached to it.

“These cats were actually roadkill and I kept them in my freezer for a few years!” the contestant proudly announced to the judges. The judges acted surprised, as if the cats didn’t look like they had spent the last few years buried under Eggo Waffles.

Last year’s winner (in my mind, anyway) also featured a roadkill cat; it was a BDSM-themed piece called “Pussy Whipped.”

There’s no way they can top Pussy Whipped this year, I thought to myself. It’s simply too good.

But then they carried out a magnificent piece which instantly changed my mind. It was a baboon which had been crucified à la Jesus Christ.

Now THIS was art.

But how the hell does one procure a dead baboon in New York City?

Apparently the judges were wondering this as well, and they asked Baboon Jesus’ creator.

“Well,” the contestant replied apprehensively, “it was in rough shape when we found it.”

It was a cryptic response which raised more questions than it answered. I’m sorry, you found it? What does a baboon in rough shape look like? Was it addicted to drugs and living in a motel?

I had to get a closer look, so I went to sneak a peak while the judges were deliberating.

It wasn’t as lean and muscular as the Jesus I had seen going to Catholic church growing up, but its serene expression and outstretched spindly arms gave it the appearance that it was going in for a hug, which I liked.

To my knowledge Baboon Jesus has not yet risen from the dead (perhaps he suffers from resurrectile dysfunction) but you can help by spreading the good news. Here’s a button to share the gospel of Baboon Jesus far and wide.

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Go in peace, and remember, Baboon Jesus loves you!

Usually there’s nobody around anyway.

But when your dog has diarrhea here in New York City it’s right on the sidewalk where pedestrians are walking. There are too many people nearby watching your dog have diarrhea and waiting to see what you’ll do. So you bravely stick your hand into a plastic bag and try your best to scoop up a handful of liquid diarrhea from the sidewalk so people know you care.

Usually you just end up smearing it around to look like a cave painting or a Van Gogh, but at least you tried.

I experience this situation every time I foster a dog (foster dogs perpetually have diarrhea), so whenever I see evidence of someone else’s struggle smeared across the sidewalk I smile in solidarity.

I’d like to think that someone whispered “Simba” as they smeared this one across the sidewalk.

This one looks like a crime scene.

I call this one “The Nickelodeon.”

Soon the snow will begin to fall and smear season will be no more. I think we can all learn to appreciate dog diarrhea for what it is: the street art of New York City.

COS in SOHO

COS is a clothing store on Spring Street with a troubling past.

In 1800, a young carpenter named Levi Weeks was accused of murdering his girlfriend, Elma, and throwing her body down a well. Thus began the infamous Manhattan Well Murder Trial, which was the first documented murder trial in American history.

It was a sort of 19th century O.J. Simpson murder case. It was highly publicized and there was damning evidence that Levi Weeks had indeed murdered Elma; on the night she went missing she told her cousin that she was meeting with Weeks so that the two could get secretly married. A witness also claimed to have seen Weeks measuring the opening of the well the Sunday before she went missing (totally normal behavior).

But through his brother’s connections and wealth Weeks was able to retain New York City’s best lawyers, including none other than the singing and dancing founding father, Alexander Hamilton, and his pal Aaron Burr. Weeks was acquitted in five minutes but was subsequently ostracized by the citizens of New York, prompting him to leave and start a new life in Mississippi, where such behavior was presumably more acceptable.

The trial is referenced in the Hamilton song Non-Stop (linked below), which details the trial in which Hamilton defends the man who clearly murdered his girlfriend and threw her in a well. I imagine Lin-Manual Miranda wrote the song while tucked into Aaron Burr’s bed back at the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

So what does this murder trial have to do with a store in SOHO?

The well from which Elma’s body was recovered still exists and is casually situated next to the menswear in the basement of this SOHO clothing store. I took a detour through Spring Street to see the well for myself.

“Excuse me,” I asked an employee. “Did you know that this well is haunted? Have you experienced anything paranormal down here?”

“Uhh, nothing crazy,” responded the employee. “Sometimes the elevator opens by itself?”

So is this store haunted? Unconfirmed, but we know there has been at least one dead body in that well. At the very least they should get somebody out there to take a look at the elevator.

Staples in Gowanus

According to a website on the internet, the Staples in Gowanus was built on top of a mass grave from the Revolutionary War. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the other haunted store in New York City was a Staples. What a letdown.

I couldn’t imagine a more dull and wretched place than Staples. Any shrieks and groans coming from the Staples in Gowanus are more likely to be emitted from miserable customers and employees than from restless spirits. Ghosts from the Revolutionary War probably wander the aisles, between printer paper and batteries, wondering what kind of sorrowful afterlife they’re trapped in and wishing for a second death.

I checked Google reviews for more clues, and found one that confirms my suspicions.

I also found a review about an assault, a “latinx boy with a bowl cut,” a “latinx girl in clown makeup,” and a “latinx manager with a missing or damaged bottom tooth.”

I take my job as a journalist and paranormal investigator very seriously, but I didn’t feel like going all the way to Brooklyn. And I certainly didn’t want to go to Staples. So I just called the store one evening.

“Hello, thank you for calling Staples,” said an employee (who I’m assuming was the young man with the bowl cut) unenthusiastically.

“Hi, I’m a reporter calling from Rat Report,” I answered.

“From where?” he asked.

“Rat Report,” I repeated.

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Well I was wondering if you’ve seen any spirits or anything paranormal during your time working at Staples,” I asked him.

“Yeah actually, I saw a couple spirits in the back,” he replied.

“What were they doing?” I asked him.

“They were dancing. Bachata.”

“What did they look like?”

“One was about 4 feet tall and one was about 6 feet tall.”

So is the Staples in Gowanus haunted? According to employees, yes, but the Rat Report official investigation is inconclusive because I refuse to set foot in such a godforsaken place.

In 1810 it was purchased by Stephen Jumel and his wife (and former mistress), Eliza, before he died under mysterious circumstances. Eliza subsequently married former Vice President Aaron Burr in a wedding ceremony which took place in the house, then filed for divorce four months later. Burr died on the day the divorce was finalized.

The mansion is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Revolutionary War soldiers, Eliza, Aaron Burr, and others.

I decided to explore the mansion for a spooktacular Rat Report investigation.

The first thing we saw when we entered the spooky grounds was a cute black cat.

An elderly woman pushing a cart approached the cat, reached into her cart, and withdrew a tin of cat food which she opened and placed on the ground.

“What’s the cat’s name?” one of my friends asked her.

She turned and looked at us with wide eyes.

“The cat’s name is Raven,” she told us in a hushed tone, “there used to be a white cat named Creampuff, but he’s gone now. There are many of us who look after Raven.”

I glanced at her cart, which contained nothing but tins of cat food. I leaned forward a bit to get a better look and she recoiled, drawing her cart close to her body as if I were trying to steal all her cat food for myself. She spun around and wheeled her cart away.

As if this encounter weren’t spooky enough we decided to enter the mansion in search of the paranormal.

The first room we entered seemed ordinary (if not gaudy) to the untrained eye, but according to the sign the room was special.

The room was special, explained the sign, because it was believed to be the first room in the American Colonies shaped like an octagon, which seems both difficult to prove and terribly insignificant. According to the sign, its octagonal shape made it excellent for entertaining.

Here we met a volunteer tour guide named Karen and decided to inquire about the paranormal nature of the house.

“Have you ever experienced anything paranormal here?” we asked her. A wry smile crossed her face.

“I run all of the paranormal investigations here,” she informed us. Over the years she has felt spirits tap her on the shoulder and has seen mysterious lights and mists. She also told us that she greets the spirits in the house when she shows up on Sunday mornings when nobody else is around.

“I think they’re mostly Revolutionary War soldiers, because there are a lot of them interred on the grounds here. But Eliza and Aaron Burr may also be around.”

We asked her more about the previous occupants of the house.

“The portraits around here just don’t do Eliza any justice,” she continued. “I mean, she was married to such rich and powerful men and was able to garner so much attention; I just don’t believe she could have looked like that.” She glanced up at a portrait of Eliza hanging on the wall.

The portrait was indeed hideous; Eliza either had a terrible portrait artist or a great personality. If anything was haunting the house it was probably this oil painting of Eliza contrasted against the cartoonish cloud wallpaper she ordered from France in 1826.

We continued wandering through the house and found ourselves in Aaron Burr’s bedchamber, which I guess is like a sad bedroom.

According to the sign, Lin-Manuel Miranda sat in Aaron Burr’s bedchamber and wrote “The Room Where It Happens” (linked below) for Hamilton (a peculiar title when you learn he wrote it in Burr’s bedchamber).

If Karen really did feel a spirit tap her on the shoulder, it was likely Aaron Burr trying to tell her that there was a terrible little man singing songs in his bedchamber.

So, is the Morris-Jumel Mansion haunted by founding fathers and their unsightly wives? According to Karen, yes, but according to the Rat Report official investigation the jury is still out. You may have to visit for yourself to see whether you experience the handsy ghosts of the Morris-Jumel Mansion.

But on September 2nd I awoke to the devastating news that Jimmy Buffett had passed away. The news weighed heavily on me. I had spent so much time visiting and talking about his Times Square resort that I felt like our lives had become intertwined.

Jimmy Buffett, it seemed, was like a brother to me.

I googled Jimmy Buffett expecting to see news about his death’s impact on the stock market, but quickly realized I had made a mistake. The legendary investor and chairman of Berkshire Hathaway is Warren Buffett (who is still very much alive).

I leaned back in my chair and scratched my head.

If the Oracle of Omaha is Warren Buffett, then who the fuck is Jimmy Buffett?

I did some more research.

Jimmy Buffett was a multi-platinum artist known for his “tropical rock” music and associated lifestyle of “island escapism.” He parlayed the popularity of one song in particular - a 1977 hit called “Margaritaville” - into an empire of trinkets, alcohol, retirement communities, and of course, a line of wretched restaurants and hotels across North America, one of which I visited a few weeks prior to his passing.

It turns out I didn’t know as much about Jimmy Buffett as I thought I did, but this all made much more sense than the “tropical Warren Buffett” narrative I had concocted in my imagination.

Since I was to return to Margaritaville to fulfill my promise to my readers, I felt that I had to get in touch with Jimmy Buffett’s spirit to see if he had any unfinished business around the resort that I could help him with.

Luckily, New York City is crawling with psychics. And as it turns out, Jimmy’s spirit does need my help.

Everywhere you go in New York City, you see signs for psychics.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned since living here, it’s that:

1. There are psychics on every block of this city, and

2. Their advice costs $10

I located my local psychic and walked to her shop, pictured below.

The psychic’s office contained a menagerie of crystals, candles, and a tiny cat.

Two golden lion thrones (one of which is pictured above) also adorned the space, looking like they had come straight from DJ Khaled’s living room.

“Can you help me get in touch with a deceased person?” I asked the psychic.

“Yes, that would be a medium reading which costs $70.”

I frowned.

“That’s a bit outside of my price range,” I replied (Rat Report is a low budget publication). She rattled off her other services and their respective prices (none of which were $10). “Maybe we can do, like, a tarot card reading and if you happen to receive any messages from the deceased person you can just… let me know?”

The psychic agreed and disappeared behind a shiny gold curtain, returning a moment later with her tarot cards.

She sat down across a small table from me and began flipping the cards over while making predictions. The readings were pretty generic at first:

“You have many years ahead of you.”

“You are a good person.”

“You have stress in your life.”

But then they took a turn.

“I can tell someone very close to you passed recently, and you haven’t been yourself lately. Like there’s a part of you that’s missing.”

How could she have known??

“This person is trying to reach out to you,” she continued, “but all I can hear is ‘help.’”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Jimmy needs my help!

“He’s asking me for help?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she responded. “This person is trapped in Limbo and needs your help but you have too much negativity surrounding you. You can buy the materials to remove this negativity for $250 - is this something you want to do?”

“Uhh - that’s out of my price range right now. But I’ll come back another time.”

My plan is to return to Margaritaville this weekend to help Jimmy find peace. After taxes and fees a stay at Margaritaville costs north of $500, so I’ll actually just be sneaking into the pool and staying until the bars close (Rat Report is a low budget publication, after all).

But first I must find out how to remove the cloud of negative energy surrounding me (preferably for less than $20) so that I can receive messages from the spirit realm.

My friends and I rode the train up for a day hike one sunny Saturday, and as we explored the town we noticed that something felt… off.

It was eerily quiet, and all of the businesses there were extremely strange. It was as if the town had been set up by aliens who had done some quick preliminary research on humans.

The first odd business we noticed was Mylen Stairs, Inc.

This is a company that sells… stairs? I wasn’t aware that one could buy stairs. Check out this quote from their website:

I thought buildings were just built with stairs. Has any Rat Report reader ever had to purchase a stair solution? If so please comment below.

The next bizarre business was called “Inspirational Gift & Things.”

Do they sell many things, but only one gift? If so, what is the gift? What are the things? The sign certainly doesn’t scream “inspirational” to me.

Last but not least, we visited the Thrift Shop for Little Orphan Animals.

This was no ordinary thrift shop; it was filled with shit like crutches, old mismatched plates and silverware, and VHS tapes. It was as if a hoarder had died, and they simply wheeled out the body and hung up the little orphan animal sign. The only difference between this store and a hoarder house was that a group of old women patrolled the store dusting everything in sight, so shoppers stroll through piles of sparkling garbage.

A handwritten sign on the wall read, “Please do not steal. Every time you steal a little orphan animal in our shelter misses out.”

One of my friends found a necklace for $3, but after we learned that the store only accepted cash we had to leave empty-handed and a little orphan animal starved to death that night.

So if you’re ever in Peekskill, New York, be sure to check out these unique local businesses. Except Inspirational Gift & Things; Google says that one is permanently closed.

In my post about Margaritaville I said I would lock myself in the Margaritaville hotel for a full day if I got 25 likes. Apparently 42 of you want to see me rot in that awful place for 24 hours so I’ll be booking a room. Details coming soon!

Shockingly, the resort recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy but seems to remain open for the time being. In order to catch a glimpse of this rare urban oasis I decided to check the place out before it disappeared for good. But first I had to do some review sleuthing.

Sadly these reviews are exactly what I expected.

The hotel boasts 234 guest rooms, Times Square’s only outdoor pool (I can’t imagine why), and no fewer than four separate tropical-themed bars distributed throughout its 32 floors.

There’s also allegedly a fitness center in the basement, but something tells me that doesn’t get much use.

My friend Aaron (of Dallas BBQ fame) and I walked into the lobby and were immediately overwhelmed with choices. We asked an employee for his recommendation.

“I’d recommend the Margaritaville Restaurant on the second floor; they have burgers, wings and nachos,” he told us, as if every restaurant in Times Square didn’t serve burgers, wings, and nachos.

We ended up at a restaurant which appeared to be deserted. In fact, most of the hotel seemed deserted.

It appeared that nobody worked on that floor. We thought about walking behind the bar and fixing ourselves two cocktails, but decided instead to go to a different bar (one with employees) and see what drinks were on the drink menu.

We regretted that decision as soon as we saw the drink menu. One drink called “License to Chill,” looked like a glass of iced Listerine garnished with a lime wedge.

We had gone to the poolside bar to see Times Square’s only outdoor pool in all its glory. It was roughly the size of the runner rug in my apartment.

I asked the bartender what types of people normally visit the Margaritaville Resort in Times Square.

“Honestly, it’s mostly just New Yorkers on a staycation,” he replied.

Suddenly it all made sense. The guests here weren’t worldly travelers; most of them had probably just won big on a scratch-off and were looking for a place to drink fluorescent alcohol and feel like they were on a trashy vacation for a night.

We finished our drinks and headed back downstairs.

We decided to check out one more bar on our way out when we saw it: the two-story Statue of Liberty replica standing in a gross restaurant, holding not a torch, but a giant illuminated margarita glass.

Never before had I seen America’s proud history bastardized on such a grand scale. The replica serves as a breathtaking beacon of hope and freedom for all who just want to say YOLO and get fucked up in what may be the saddest hotel to ever exist.

One can even dine inside the statue, but this seat appeared to be reserved for VIPs. I imagine that this is where Mr. Buffett sits when he’s in town.

As we were leaving I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to spend the night at such a terrible place while it was actively going out of business. Then I got an idea:

If this post gets 25 likes, I will book a room and spend 24 hours locked inside the Margaritaville Resort in Times Square.

For 50 likes I’ll wear a pair of Hey Dudes the entire time.

I may even drink a License to Chill (or two!) in the Statue of Liberty booth. There’s only one way to find out!

New York City, and Manhattan in particular, is an interesting place because it is so densely populated. With millions of people living on a tiny island, structures were built on top of and around each other with whatever limited real estate was available. Over the centuries buildings were shoe-horned into awkward lots creating a dense, entangled labyrinth of structures containing several bizarre dead-end spaces and rooms without direct street access. The result of this buildup is strangely-shaped apartments, windows facing brick walls, and most importantly, an abundance of speakeasies. 

Speakeasies were created as a clever way to wring extra dollars out of tourists and utilize these spaces that would otherwise be confusing or off-putting to access. I imagine speakeasies are created like this:

Realtor: "I found the perfect space for your restaurant, and it's in a prime location! The only drawback is that the only entrance is through a pet shop; guests will have to crawl through a cage of live lizards to get in or out."

Would-be Restauranteur: "Hmmm... Perfect, I'll just make it a reptile-themed speakeasy instead."

Some speakeasies were presumably created this way, to make use of spaces that can only be entered through an art gallery or a laundromat or a Five Guys restaurant. Others, like Raine's Law Room, decide to become speakeasies simply by forgoing signage and locking the door. By forcing you to knock and beg to come inside you get the speakeasy experience without all the hassle, so that when they finally let you in you're thrilled to sit down and spend $30 on a cocktail. 

And unlike clandestine watering holes of the past, today’s speakeasies aren’t at risk of being raided by the feds. The biggest risk of visiting a speakeasy today is looking like an asshole as you pace around on the sidewalk, confused, periodically glancing up from Google Maps on your phone before finally spotting the unmarked door or swinging urinal that leads to your destination. For this reason it’s best to visit with someone who has been there before.

A speakeasy called Please Don’t Tell in the East Village has one of the more extravagant entrances that I’ve seen. You walk into a hotdog restaurant, enter a phone booth, and dial a number on the rotary phone which rings a bell inside the speakeasy. If you ring the bell several times in rapid succession the back wall of the phone booth will swing open, revealing an irate hostess. Success!

Once inside, you’re greeted by some great taxidermy pieces, including a raccoon and a bear wearing a hat. A bit sad, yes, but comical none the less.

While the entrance and taxidermy were excellent, drinks did not seem to be this bar’s forte. My friend (a respected veterinarian who has spent lots of time on farms) remarked that my drink smelled like a dairy barn. Another friend (an avid maker of salsas) accurately compared her drink to a fresh salsa verde mixed with sparkling water. A third friend, the most polite of the bunch, simply observed that her drink was “tart and beet forward.”

All in all, it was a fun experience for a mid-week nightcap. While there are other options nearby with better drinks, nowhere else in the East Village can you enter through a phone booth and see a dead bear wearing a hat.

These men were camped out with their wares (including trash bags, cigarettes, rugs, and Nerds candy) strewn about, and they were using a wheelchair as a sort of mobile work station upon which they were preparing some crack. They then sat down to smoke the crack.

Shit, I thought to myself, how am I going to get to work with all their shit in front of the door?

Then I realized something: that guy’s outfit is cool.

He’s dressed the way I thought drug dealers would dress when I was a kid: long trench coat with a wide brimmed hat obscuring his face. He looks like the villain on a neighborhood watch sign.

So I did some research and put together the following guide to steal his look:

1. Princess Polly Penelope Coat in beige: $118

   According to Vogue, super-sized stripes are in this summer. It may be hot out, but it’s worth it for the look.

2. Timberland 6-Inch Waterproof Boots - $210

   A pair of sturdy boots offers protection against rodents and lets you wade through the city’s filth with confidence.

3. Panama Jack Marlin Boonie Hat - $35

   Beat the heat this summer with a wide brimmed hat to protect against the sun’s harmful UV rays.

4. Rite Aid Silver Sport 1 Wheelchair - $162

   WFH like a pro this summer with this mobile work station. Tired? It’s also a chair so you can take a load off.

So there you have it, a definitive guide to stealing his look and keeping it cool this summer. Come back next week for more fashion updates from East Village.

For a while I assumed this was some type of advertisement for a Netflix series or a Brooklyn band, but after doing some digging it turns out that this man is an actual rabbi here in New York City.

Even more puzzling is the fact that this man died in 1994, and a fringe radical sect of Judaism believes he is the Messiah and is still alive, hiding out somewhere like Tupac. This rabbi, Menachem Mendel Schneerson, was born in what is today Ukraine in 1902, so if true he would be over 120 years old.

The same group who post these stickers all over the city also maintain a website, which looks polished and modern but reads like it was written by a space alien. It contains excerpts like the following:

This is not a virtual reality concept. It’s happening for real. Cynic says, “Na, I don’t believe in that stuff.” But hey, this is no time to get stuck in theology. Something big is happening. That’s a fact you either know or you don’t know. But now you know. And that’s a good thing. Because the world as we know it is about to change… for good.

And of course:

If everyone makes smalls efforts, we can undoubtedly achieve world perfection. Actually!

Live the Rebbe King Moshiach Forever!

Through my extensive research of reading the Wikipedia page, I’ve gathered that Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson was indeed an influential and well-respected figure in the Jewish community, but most (including himself) do not think of him as the Messiah. So while I don’t think it is likely that he is still alive, I am certain that I will continue to see his face beaming down from stoplights around the city.

Greeley Square Park

This one looked nice but was closed. I vowed to return one day when it was open.

The reviews promised a no-nonsense bathroom experience without any bells and whistles.

Total Score: N/A

Union Square

Well, it doesn’t look great. Let’s see what the reviews say.

This restroom is heavily-trafficked and seems to be a community gathering space of sorts, where pervs and hobos alike can gather and do their thing.

And Kevin just seems to be confused by the concept of a public restroom.

Scent Profile: Urine forward, dry, aged

Smell Score: 3 - Really smelled like aged urine but wasn’t unbearable.

Cleanliness Score: 3 - I mean look at it.

Privacy Score: 1 - full of pervs and hobos, and the stall doesn’t even latch.

Total Score: 2.5

East River Park

This restroom was the dirtiest and smelled the worst.

What type of “stuff” was going on when Matt tried using the restroom? I have no idea, but there was lots of blood in this one.

Scent profile: vomit-inducing, overwhelming urine with bathroom chemicals and feces-in-urinal, oaky

Smell Score: 1 - I was actually struggling not to gag.

Cleanliness Score: 1 - I’m not sure what the blood was from, but I’m imagining someone pouring whiskey on a gunshot wound and prying out a bullet.

Privacy Score: 4 - I had the place to myself, but in a disconcerting way.

Total Score: 2

Madison Square Park

The final restroom I investigated was unlike anything I had ever seen.

It’s a booth out on the sidewalk, and you have to pay an entrance fee of 25 cents like some kind of circus during the Great Depression. It also only accepts real, physical quarters as payment.

I haven’t possessed a real, physical quarter since I was a child, but luckily I was able to slip in as the last visitor was exiting. The inside was like the space shuttle of public restrooms. A shiny space-age toilet sat at one end, with a chrome sink and gleaming control panel fixed to the opposite wall.

Scent profile: Porta-Potty chemicals, fruity, light-bodied

Smell Score: 4

Cleanliness Score: 4

Privacy Score: 5

It was impeccably clean and smelled great (compared to the others), but something about paying to use the restroom just felt un-American to me.

I also noticed a problematic light on the control panel labeled “WHEN LIGHT IS ON, 3 MIN. TO OPEN DOOR.”

Could you imagine being mid-dump, and looking up to see that light on? You’d wonder how long the light had been on, and how much precious time you had before the door slides open, revealing you to all of Madison Avenue like a prize on a game show.

And for these reasons, despite its high smell, cleanliness, and privacy scores, this robot bathroom gets a total score of 2.

Therefore the winner, sadly, is the Union Square restroom, because it was terrible, but slightly less so than the others.

Do you know of any restrooms I should review? Leave a comment.