Beardie traveled to New York by train, because he won’t step foot on a plane anymore. “They’re lousy with al-Qaeda operatives,” he told us. “Hiding in the bathrooms, peering at you from the complimentary peanuts, bogarting the emergency exit seats. And they’re all armed to the teeth with box cutters and shampoo bottles bigger than three ounces.”

Beardie feels much more comfortable with trains, because as he understands it, Muslim terrorists are afraid of one thing and one thing only: railroad bandits.

“It was a hot topic at last year’s Curmudge-Con,” Beardie explained to us. “Trust me, nobody’s gonna hijack a train and fly it into the World Trade Center.”

Well yeah, sure, but… oh never mind.

Hailing a cab in New York ain’t easy, especially when you’re just eight inches tall, your pants are held up with a rubber band, and you have no visible pockets. Also, it doesn’t help when some giggling mongoloid has grabbed you by the ankles and is waving you at oncoming traffic like a scepter, screaming “Beardie needs a ride!! Beardie needs a ride!!”

Seriously, Beardie, how many times do I need to say I’m sorry?

Beardie likes to hang out in Midtown, just in the hopes that a tourist will walk up to him and ask, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” And then he can say, “Practice, practice, practice… blowing the conductor.”

Beardie never tires of that timeless chestnut.

One of Beardie’s favorite things about visiting New York is harassing the Jew-run media.

“Hey, liberal elite,” Beardie yelled at the aristocrat editors up in their ivory tower. “Here’s a new headline for you. ‘Terrorist-Loving Aborted Fetus Who Doesn’t Support the Troops Gets Gay Married in a Glitzy Hollywood Ceremony Paid For With Taxpayer Money!’ You can have that one for free!”

They never responded, but Beardie knew they were up there, hiding under their desks and stewing in their granola-crunching, tree-hugging juices, stunned that a civilian could have so easily decoded the liberal agenda.

“Hey, East Village restaurant mascot! You want to make $5 the hard way? I can think of a few places you could stick that thumb.”

C’mon, Beardie, let’s keep it family-friendly!

Beardie loves New York dining, but he was shocked at how empty many of the restaurants were. And not just the ones run by immergrints — where they try to make you eat monkey brains and Kung Pao poodle — but the good ones, too. It was so bleak that Beardie almost felt a little guilty about slipping a pubic hair into his meal and demanding to get his bill comped.

Not guilty enough not to do it, of course, but just kinda sad and wistful.

“Hey, have you seen the price for a plate of foie gras at Bouley?” Beardie reminded us. “Unless I’m shitting out gold later, I ain’t paying.”

Although it was only his first day in New York, Beardie was already out of money. (Apparently having “this-is-a-one-time-thing” sex with a male prostitute dressed like a cowboy costs a lot more than it did in 1969.) So Beardie decided to get some extra spending cash the way the locals do; by rolling tourists in the park.

Beardie waited under a bridge for what felt like the entire afternoon, and the most he had to show for his efforts was $16, tickets to a Guys & Dolls matinee, and some guy’s index finger. (Yeah, yeah, he knows. Beardie has a problem with his temper.)

Times have changed and Beardie realizes he needs to adapt to survive. The real money isn’t in assaulting pedestrians, whose fanny packs are as empty as their 401(k)s. You want to make some real fat cash in 2009, it’s all about stalking and robbing television personalities.

Beardie lurked outside the NBC building and waited for Tina Fey to either come to or leave work (he knows celebri-queers keep odd hours). When he saw her, he was gonna grab one of her Emmys and just start running. He figured it’d fetch a hefty price on the black market. If nothing else, he could melt it down to gold coins and use them to buy magic beans.

If she didn’t happen to be carrying one of her awards, Beardie had a Plan B. He’d somehow convince her to invite him back to her place for a sleepover, and they’d stay up all night drinking root beer floats and making homemade falafels and getting into hummus and cucumber fights and watching Molly Ringwald movies and drunk-dialing their exes and crying about their fathers.

It wouldn’t help his financial mess, but Beardie just needs a girls’ night out.

Beardie isn’t as sickened as some people by the “Disneyfication” of Times Square. Sure, the porn palaces are gone and there aren’t as many trannie hookers on every corner (and those that are still around won’t take personal checks anymore). But even though Beardie has fond memories of the neighborhood’s sleazy heyday — he shared a Times Square apartment with Al Goldstein during the early 70s — Beardie insists that you can still get a cheap thrill if you know where to look.

Sometimes, Beardie told us, if you ask real nice, a Wisconsin tourist will give you a handjob in the alley behind Planet Hollywood. And best of all, they don’t charge you “New York prices”.

Because of his greenback shortage, Beardie ended up sleeping in the park on his first night in New York. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounds. It was definitely cold, and Beardie had to construct a makeshift blanket with whatever he could find in the trash, and at some point he was challenged by a gang of homeless miscreants to “drink a bunch of water and find out who’s pee is the clearest” (which Beardie won, of course, leading to his crowning as the new “King of the Central Park Hobos”), and somewhere around 4am he stumbled upon a dead body and decided to cut it open like a Tauntaun and sleep in its guts for warmth but he discovered that the body had already been hollowed out and inhabited by a family of very aggressive and “bitey” squirrels.

So, you know, it wasn’t really all that different from a night in any three-star New York hotel.

Beardie’s a big fan of the subway. Not only is it cheap and convenient, but it’s great for games of make-believe. As the subway speeds through underground tunnels, Beardie likes to look out the window and pretend he’s Captain Bill Owens from Fantastic Voyage, spiraling through an artery in his miniaturized submarine as he’s chased by angry white blood cells.

Also, when the subways are crowded, Beardie likes to press his genitals against unsuspecting old ladies. “Hey, is that a roll of subway tokens or is Beardie just happy to see you?”

Beardie would’ve loved to get a few souvenirs, but he’s learned the hard way never to touch anything sold by a New York street vendor without first inspecting it with an ultraviolet black light. Most of the t-shirts have more semen and blood stains than the Shroud of Turin.

Beardie was sure to get tickets to see a taping of The Late Show, if only to see his old drinking buddy David “Big Tuna” Letterman again. Funny story, Beardie was indirectly responsible for the gap in Letterman’s smile. Because of court orders, Beardie is unable to go into specifics. But let’s just say that if you’re hanging out with a not-yet-famous talk show host and the two of you have been drinking mojitos all night and you somehow get into a skirmish with some Puerto Ricans and one of them shoots said talk show host in the ass and he won’t let you take him to the emergency room because he’s violating his parole and doesn’t want to involve the cops so you agree to take out the bullet with a rusty pair of pliers in a Hell’s Kitchen motel bathroom and you tell him “I’m not gonna lie to you, this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker,” and you give him a piece of wood to bite down on because you don’t have any anesthesia other than what’s left of the mojitos (and some morphine that you’re saving for a special occasion), make sure you remind him to bite length-wise not width-wise.

When Beardie needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city, he went to the park and gazed dreamily at the duck pond. But it turned ugly when he overheard a few of the ducks squawking, and he swore they were saying “Barack! Barack!” That just set Beardie off.

“I suppose you think the only way to stimulate the economy is with massive government spending?” he asked them. “That is so typical of flightless liberal waterfowl!”

“Barack, Barack,” replied the ducks.

“You can’t be serious,” Beardie yelled back. “The only fiscal policy that can truly boost economic growth is to lower taxes and allow businesses to be self-regulating!”

“Barack, Barack,” the ducks retorted.

After a brief tussle in the pond — Beardie took on the duck’s leader, who he thought bore more than a passing resemblance to Nancy Pelosi — he was escorted from the park by security.

“Would I like to see Mama Mia tonight? Well gosh oh golly, I sure would, but I already have a prior commitment to fellate Bob Fosse’s corpse. Of course I don’t want to fucking see Mama fucking Mia! Get the fuck away from me!”

It took some convincing to get Beardie to see Wicked with us. We had to repeatedly assure him that attending a musical based on The Wizard of Oz did not automatically make him a “friend of Dorothy” (though we were curious how he even knew about that euphemism in the first place).

He eventually agreed when we told him that Wicked was actually the story of legalized prostitution in Amsterdam, and a hooker with a heart of gold whose skin turns green because of a nasty (and untreated) case of chlamydia.

“How are they gonna pull this off?” Beardie giggled as we entered the theater. “What even rhymes with chlamydia? Unless they’ve got a lot of characters named Lydia, they’re screwed! They should’ve gone with Hepatitis C. It’s so much easier to write songs about.”

Beardie was initially disappointed by the lack of STDs in Wicked. But after the first act, the usually stoic old fogey revealed that even he has a tender side that isn’t afraid to cry at musicals.

“Where did they get such wonderful flying monkeys?” Beardie whimpered, a single tear trickling down his yellow cheek.

Awww, Beardie, you big softie!

“All the animals come out at night,” Beardie muttered to himself during the cab ride home. “Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

Don’t be alarmed. Beardie may like nothing more than to shave his hair into a mohawk and do something really stupid and violent to impress Jodie Foster, but he’s got bigger fish to fry at the moment. Namely, how to get the hell out of this taxi without paying his fare. Hmmm, maybe a handful of pubes will do the trick.