David Blaine lives near me. In fact, he lives in the building right next to me. Now, I don't know of the recent television special or of the liver damage he has recently incurred, or even of the holding of your breathe until your fingers turn all old man-y. But what I do know is that last summer I ran into the asshole with all of his bitches near him.
When I say "bitches", I don't mean regular girls who seem to adore his magical properties ... I mean of the hoochie mammas who seem to flock to him instinctively because of his high millionaire salary. In case you don't know what I intentionally meant ... I meant da hookers.
One night ... let's call it late September (but the Kir would know better because she remembers things properly and not "roundaboutly") ... David Blaine ran into me. And I mean I collided with the man because he's an idiot who can't seem to walk on the sidewalk with his two girlfriend's properly without running into local guys walking to the deli on a Friday night. Well, D.B. was drunk and fat as fuck and not all A.B.C. thin like (like my mother fucking subsidiary company told him to be) ... he was simply fat as shit and piss drunk.
We have seen David Blaine a lot ... riding on his cool-ass B.M.W. a lot ... riding with "da bitches". In fact, I could tell you some stories about D.B. coming home with many a "ho" ... but I'm a better man than that. Well not really, but I'll refrain for now.
I'll just say that, wow "what the fuck?". You aren't street magic cool anymore. Just let it go man. You aren't Houdini and sure as hell not, nobody gives a fuck what the shit you do anymore.
Those who live right the fuck beside you