FIPS SPECIAL REPORT: WHO IS THE BAD WIFE??

photo via The Brooklyn PaperThe world is literally reshaping itself as we speak. The motherfuckin’ people have spoken and they’ve been heard.

A dictator stands down in Egypt and a dick Republican Rep from upstate is so damn stupid that he goes on Craigslist and tries to find some NSA lovin’...and USES HIS REAL NAME, AND SENDS A BARE CHESTED FACE PIC (to a chick in Texas no less). I mean: this shit is just falling from the sky into the laps of serious journalists.

So, what’s my third assignment from FIPS?

Well thanks to a reader inquiry, I was tasked with digging deeper into the mystery of why that bodega on Seventh Ave between 11th and 12th Streets is called The Bad Wife. Sure it’s a limp dick story, and sure the Brooklyn Paper has already covered it, but still: I was hell-bent on treating it with the same journalistic gravity Anderson Cooper would that second punch in the face by a government sponsored street thug.

Let’s retrace my exact steps as to how I nailed this hot story of the week:

First I went in stealth style, taking the F train from Manhattan where I was working undercover as a guy with a full-time job. Best way not to be noticed is to take the F train...there are always so many damn people on it, you can simply get lost in the folds of crazy.

Second, I arranged to have the freakin’ F train get stuck in a tunnel between East Broadway and York Street because of a sick passenger at Jay Street. Sitting for 15 minutes with two, count ‘em TWO screaming babies in my car, definitely provided the right amount of real life grit a journalist needs to bring authenticity to his story.

Finally reaching the location in question, I slip in and head straight to the refrigerators in the back for a Smart Water. I take note of the newly done hard floors and the neatly stacked shelves filled with organic this and gluten-free that.

Here’s where the rubber really hits the road: I saunter up to this sweet-looking (Korean?)
man, who I presume is the owner and use the journalist’s ultimate weapon…

J CHARLES: So why is this place named the Bad Wife? (…the question.)

OWNER: (Smiles and becomes instantly sheepish) Oh… not meant to be offensive.
Mean no harm. (I promise you, FIPsters I’m not being racist, this is exactly how the man
talked.)

J CHARLES: No, no, I think it’s a pisser. Where’s it come from?

OWNER: I have joke with friends to open store downtown and when I do I call it Bad
Wife.

J CHARLES: So it’s not a response to CBS’s hit drama, The Good Wife?

OWNER: (He looks at me like I’m a little off) Ahhhh (laughs, he has no clue what I’m
talking about) No…. Wives in this neighborhood, very strong. (He makes a fisting
motioning).

J CHARLES: Oh they are. (I laugh a little) Do you have a bad wife?

OWNER: (He starts turning red) Ahhh well, my wife not a bad wife but she…

At this point a tall blonde Slopesterette in one of those ironic long, puffy, winter coats that all our mom’s wore in the 80’s, but people in Brooklyn  still insist on paying $200 bucks for steps up behind me.

SLOPESTERETTE: Oh your wife can be bitch. She’s nasty. (This chick is obviously a
regular.)

OWNER: (He laughs) My wife… tough. No heart. (He starts really lauging) It’s a joke.
A joke.

SLOPESTERETTE: No she’s really kinda nasty. (She laughs. She kinda reminds me of Pink without all the tats and superfluous piercings.)

Needless to say I wanted to take both Pink and the pussy-whipped bodega owner out for a drink. But my dope ride was waiting for me on the corner to speed me home.

Once on the B67, I rode past the Good Wife and who was standing at the register with my new bodega owning bestie? A really bitchy looking woman scowling at her much-shorter partner for not bagging someone’s liter bottle of diet Pepsi.

Sometimes you just can’t make this shit up