Wake up, sleepy head! It’s time for another day in New York…. Come on, Beardie, stop playing around. We know you’re not really sleeping…. Beardie?…. Beardie?!… Beardie, what’s wrong? Are you okay?…. Oh my god, he’s so cold. I can’t find a pulse! He’s dead!! Beardie is dead!! No, no, no, no, no!! How did this happen? We never should have let him sleep alone in the park! It’s all our fault! We’ll never forgive ourselves for…. Wait a minute, Beardie doesn’t have a circulatory system, so why would he…. ? No pulse….? Oh come on! Ha ha ha, very funny, Beardie. You’re a jackass.

Beardie feels a kinship with New York, because New Yorkers are rude and surly and impatient, and just like Beardie, they’ve never encountered a problem they didn’t think could be fixed with shoving.

While waiting for the subway, a fellow commuter decided that Beardie was infringing on his personal space, so he gave Beardie a shove. He didn’t shove me, the sentient being holding Beardie. He shoved Beardie… a doll. And then he told Beardie — again, not me, but Beardie — to fuck off.

If you needed another reason to believe that New York is the greatest city on the planet, this should pretty much do it. God bless Manhattan. Say what you will about the inhabitants of this dirty, congested island, but they don’t take guff from old man dolls.

Beardie isn’t easily impressed by tourist must-sees like the Statue of Liberty — “If I wanted to crawl up inside a spiky-haired chick with pyromania and no panties,” Beardie told us, “I’d go Brooklyn”. Instead, he took us to the Strand, one of New York’s finest independent bookstores.

Believe it or not, Beardie is a lover of literature. Spend a few hours in the Strand with him and you’ll learn all sorts of fun book trivia. Did you realize, for instance, that The Anarchist Cookbook has a whole lot more than just instructions on building homemade explosives? If you know where to look, you can also find a killer recipe for Gazpacho. Also, the paperback edition of Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-Tung apparently contains an entire chapter devoted to kittens. Strange but true. If it wasn’t for Beardie, we never would have known that Lord Byron once published a collection of poems about truck stop glory holes.

Beardie is like a walking encyclopedia of things that aren’t true but really should be.

Beardie always like to check out the “small press” section, just see if they’ve got any copies of his long out-of-print but still timeless self-published chapbook William Howard Taft Gave Me Mouth Herpes: And Other True Stories and Poems. It’s a classic, even if a good third of it was cribbed from Ulysses. (Here’s a fun fact: Beardie and James Joyce were both creative writing majors at the same community college, where they once collaborated on a 70,000-word epic poem about a baby unicorn named Sprinkles.)

Beardie decided to read up on Napoleon’s life, just to find out if his therapist’s been insulting him when he insists that Beardie has a “Napoleon Complex”. He enjoyed all the sieging and bloodlust — in high school, Beardie was voted “Mostly Likely to Stage a Coup D’état” — but he was a little concerned about the Big N’s less impressive legacy. Beardie is now convinced that his therapist thinks he has a small penis. Either that or he suspects Beardie’s schlong was stolen by a Vienna physician and sold to a black-market collector — which, fine, is sorta true, but that was just a college prank gone awry and Beardie eventually bought it back at auction.

Beardie gets a little wistful whenever he watches children ice skating in Central Park. It’s partly because it brings up bad memories from his childhood, and how his father forbid him from becoming a professional figure skater — in his prime, Beardie could do a lutz jump that was so precise, he could slice off a cancerous mole deli-thin — and forced him to get into the family venison-jerky business.

Beardie also gets wistful because it just reminds him about that stupid restraining order, requiring him to be no less than 30 meters away from all children under the age of 18 in the state of New York. Make one mistake in a van with the windows blocked out in a school zone and you’ll pay for it the rest of your life.

Did you know that the Metropolitan Museum of Art is more commonly referred to as the Met? Beardie didn’t. And did you know that the Met and the New York Mets are two entirely different things? It was news to Beardie. And were you aware that if you walk into the Met and demand to know where they’re storing the skeleton of Yogi Berra, and when they try to restrain you it just makes you start screaming “Don’t touch me or I’ll cut you like Kevin Mitchell’s cat,” you’re gonna spend a few hours in the museum’s holding cell? I know, weird, right? Beardie was as surprised as you are.

Beardie was unimpressed by Monet. He thought it was supposed to be one of those stereogram magic-eye paintings. “My eyes can’t get any more unfocused and I still don’t see any goddamn spaceship,” Beardie growled. “This is the lamest optical illusion I’ve ever seen. Don’t quit your day job, Claude.”

Beardie was really digging this painting until he realized it was a Picasso and not another masterpiece by his old pal John Wayne Gacy.

“When it comes to clown art, there ain’t nobody who does it better than my man Pogo,” Beardie told us. “This Pablo jagoff should stick to the Cubism and leave the clown-painting to the real artists.”

Yes, Beardie agrees, the resemblance is uncanny. Also, take a good whiff of Beardie’s forehead. Smell familiar? If we’re not mistaken, Beardie has the distinct odor of moldy limestone.

Beardie endured room after room of overhyped trash and grade-school finger-painting before finally stumbling upon something that spoke to him: Rousseau’s “Forest in Winter at Sunset”.

“It reminds me of a place where German children might get lost and eventually eaten by witches,” Beardie remarked. “God how I miss my hometown. I wonder how Mutter is faring against the winter frost.”

Beardie wants to make one thing perfectly clear. When he said that he wanted to give this naked male statue a “massage”, he didn’t mean to imply that he finds him in any way personally attractive, or that he’s into black dudes, or that he’s hypnotized by his washboard abs, or his taut, rippling forearms, or his serpentine cock, and he certainly has no interest in burying his face between his sinewy buttcheeks and making motorboat sounds.

Beardie just appreciates a good piece of ass… art, art, he meant art, dammit!

What a pleasant surprise! Beardie ran into a pair of his old war buddies, “Shaky” Franklin and Clemson “Dizzy” Pete. They reminisced about their summer at that POW camp, where they played countless games of Russian roulette (“Remember when Dusty shot himself?” Beardie laughed. “Oh man, what a nut that guy was!”) and cried themselves to sleep in their mud beds. They talked about which of their old friends were dead, which ones were dying, and who among them could still “get it up”. And then, when they’d exhausted all possible topics, they just stared at their feet and said nothing, occasionally punching each other in the shoulder and muttering “Good to see you again, faggot.”

Beardie enjoyed the reunion, but was relieved it was short-lived. “That was fucking awkward,” he whispered to us when his friends were out of earshot. “They both looked so ashen and sickly. And what the hell was that growing out of Dizzy’s back? Looked like a tumor to me.”

So ladies, if the butt is round
And you wanna triple-X throw down
Dial 1-900-BEARDIE
And kick them nasty thoughts
Baby got back!

Yeah, that’s right, you heard what Beardie was singing. And don’t pretend you don’t like it, either. What’s that sound? Beep-beep-beep-beep. I’m pretty sure that’s the sound of you backin’ that ass up.

Thank you, Georges Seurat. The art world’s consummate ass man.

Beardie ain’t no art critic, but he knows what he likes. And nothing makes him smile like the chance to make inappropriate boob jokes.

“What did one saggy boob say to the other saggy boob?” Beardie asked, loud enough for the entire museum to hear. “‘If we don’t get some support soon, people are going to think we’re nuts!’ Get it? Nuts! Like testicles! The boobs are starting to look like a ballsack! Get it?”

Yeah, we get it, Beardie. Why does it not surprise us that you’re still single?

“Now when I say she has a ‘nice rack’, you know I’m not talking about lamb, right?”

Yeah, Beardie, we assumed as much. You have noticed that nobody else is laughing at these jokes, right?

“I bet she knows all about Einstein’s Theory of Relative Titty.”

Could be. Listen, are you about finished? Those security guards over there are glaring at us and one of them has been talking into his wrist. I think it’s only a matter of time before-

“If she was an Olympic swimmer, I bet she’d win the gold in the breast stroke.”

Okay, fine, carry on.

“The only way to tell if those peaches are ripe is by squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeezing them.”

Actually, Beardie, I think they’re supposed to be apples.

“I have a breasted interest in this painting.”

You don’t have any idea what you’re looking at anymore, do you Beardie?

“You better be careful. Somebody’s just set a boobie trap for you!”

Gotcha. We’ll be down at the gift shop. Just come find us when you tucker yourself out.

It took all day, but Beardie finally found some art that combined his two favorite things: Catholics and single mothers.

Beardie is getting sick and tired of all the insinuations about his sexuality. First of all, he was just lingering near this particular exhibit because he has a special fondness for ancient Greek sculpture. If he was standing a little too close, it’s only because he was admiring the craftsmanship and attention to detail. And for the record, Beardie can’t help it that he’s short, and the sculpture’s penis just so happened to be at eye level. Next time, rather than casting aspersions, why doncha help a brutha out and give Beardie a boost?

He will admit, however, that he might’ve been whistling at the stone schlong, and maybe even blowing on it. “I was just trying to coax it out of its shell,” Beardie said with an impish smile. “Didn’t realize all those Greeks had Napoleon dicks. Oh, snap! That’s right, bitches, I totally went there!”

After an afternoon of goddamn culture, Beardie relaxed at his favorite pizza joint in Midtown, which also happened to be a popular hangout for C-list celebrities. Nothing puts Beardie in his happy place like eating a slice of New York pie while gazing at a signed photo of Billy Baldwin.

Actually, Beardie never touched his pizza. But he did stare into Baldwin’s baby blue eyes for almost an hour, until management finally asked him to leave because he was “freaking out the other customers”.

Poor Beardie. Still so misunderstood.

Beardie woke up on his last day in New York feeling a little melancholy. He wasn’t ready to end his vacation, but at least he was going home with a head full of memories. Also, a satchel full of cash (Bernie Madoff spent a small fortune on Beardie’s dried fruit figurines), Joey Ramone’s brain in a jar of formaldehyde (thanks, former CBGB’s employee with a lot of gambling debts), and a tapeworm the size of a labradoodle (thanks for nothing, halal food cart on 43rd and Lexington).

Goodbye, New York. Beardie’s going to miss your dirty air and your non-English-speaking cab drivers and your Kong-proof skyscrapers. He’s going to miss your mole people and your gullible tourists and your Giuliani mistresses on the rebound. (“Oh, don’t cry! You’ll rust so dreadfully.”) And Jew-run media, Beardie thinks he’ll miss you most of all.