You know I am not fond of the yuppies.  They say "401K" sometimes. Shut the fuck up.

One thing that yuppies in New York love to talk about are speakeasies.  A speakeasy was a Prohibition-era bar that secretly sold booze.  Hey yuppie dumbfucks!  There are no more speakeasies!

They don't care.  The like to go to bars that are unmarked and require some sort of password for entrance.  They like to sit in there and order two $9 beers.  Then they like to hurry out so they can call all their friends and tell them about the speakeasy they just got into.  Hey yuppie dumbfuck!  That was just a shitty bar!

A favorite yuppie activity is to go to some common public bar just to they can tell everyone about the secret bar they went to last week.  Someone else will then chime in with their own clandestine imbibing experience.  It predictably devolves into a competition to see who has jumped through the most daunting hoops  to get into the most obscure bar.  After about 20 minutes, Todd from Johns Hopkins is reveling the crowd with the story about the time he found the SoHo dumpster marked by a Druid triquetra drawn in mustard.  Todd dove into the garbage and dug down to the false bottom, where he found some really classy , totally "old New York" guys sipping Sam Adams Utopia pints.

About 6 weeks ago, I was in a regular people bar, and  I decided that I had heard my last yuppie speakeasy storytime.  I decided to shut it the fuck down.  As soon as I heard the excited utterance...

 "Have you guys ever heard of this place Milk & Honey?"

  ...I snapped into action.

I whisked over to the yuppie table, put my hand up, and started right in:

"One time, I snuck through a steam vent by Grand Central, and perilously worked my way down a lattice of broken pipes and grates, until my feet hit hardwood 7 stories below the city. There I found the SINGLE most secret and exclusive taproom in New York:John D. Rockefeller's luxurious private subway station, abandoned after a flood in the 20's, now haunted and staffed by the webbed-foot, albino mole people.

There, I had a beer brewed from water siphoned off a rotting distribution main.  It was delicious.  After I finished, the pale wraiths encased me in an antique diving bell, rolled me into Rockefeller's lavish subway car and flipped a switch.  The car rumbled up to speed and crashed through structural piles and supports.  As the cavernous tunnel collapsed all about the wretched freaks behind me, the car careened through an ancient aqueduct that spilled me into the East River.  When I eventually broke free of the diving bell and washed ashore near the Brooklyn Bridge, my first thought was:

'Why? Why did those poor, wretched souls spare me their cruel fate?'

But then I realized:

'Yes.  Yes, Chris.  This means that you will never have to listen to those fuckers talk about Milk & Honey again.'"

And then I just walked back to my table.  And those fuckers didn't say a word.