Analyzing The Worst Type Of People From Boston And New York, From Someone Who’s Lived In Both

Jason Kempin/WireImage

I’m of the firm and correct belief that 65-70 percent of all human beings are assholes, which makes classifying specific fanbases by a hierarchy of moral righteousness a fruitless endeavor. Fanbases are like pieces of literal cow shit: there are lovely magic mushrooms in all of them, but the only variable is how much turd there is around it. If you’re lucky, the stench of the log won’t define you.

As a fan of Boston sports, I have enjoyed 10 championships in my lifetime in the four sports worth gloating over, and with that comes a careful examination of our turd smell. We have the reputation, whether fair or otherwise, of being entitled, narrow-minded, hot tempered, with a proclivity to solve complex math problems on a chalkboard at MIT and lie about it.

I’m not delusional thinking we are without sin. The worst of us are insufferable.

I spent two summers in college as a bouncer at McFadden’s in Boston not too far from Fenway Park and I kid you not, I’m surprised I made it out alive. I witnessed no less than three fights a week. Guys “protecting” the girls they’re talking to from competition before realizing that the girls, under no circumstances, will ever fuck them. Guys who spill out of bars at Boston’s egregious last call time of 1:30 am, drunk, broke, blue-balled, and with nowhere to go, who need a testosterone release by cold-cocking a stranger for jay-walking.

I have been on the receiving end of the worst Boston has to offer, getting my ass kicked so badly I ended up in the hospital with a fractured ankle and my lip split open so cleanly that it was flapping when I spoke, or tried to.

I must’ve been severely concussed because I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room, completely disillusioned, looking at the dude next to me whose finger was gushing blood from a cut he acquired while attempting to gut a blunt with an exact-o knife and thinking, “I’m glad I’m not that guy.” Seconds later, the dude looks over at me, blood beginning to make its way toward his elbow, and says “Holy shit man, you can go before me.” While this was happening my brothers and a couple friends had rushed to the hospital after learning that I’d been massacred and were quickly escorted out by security for confronting the poor lady at the front desk about not attending to me quick enough.

P.S. You should see the other guy, though–totally fine, nearly untouched. Quite impressive fighter.

The Boston asshole can toe the line between charming and downright dangerous, depending on what color alcohol they drank that night, and when I moved to New York I found myself irrationally missing Boston’s Napoleon Syndrome. In the four years I’ve lived in New York, I can count on one JPP hand how many fights I’ve seen. With how many fucking people there are here constantly bumping into you and breathing on you, it’s a goddamn miracle.

New York presents a whole different type of asshole, maybe even more egregious: The Passive Asshole. New York, with its population nearly 12 times that of Boston, arms its citizens with the dangerous force of anonymity. No one gives a shit about anyone here and why would they? I could have sex with a girl who lives in my building and could leave in the morning with complete confidence I’ll never see her again. Just take one look at literally any trash can in this godforsaken city, which are basically visual representations of my credit cards: maxed out with the irrational belief that someone else will take care of it.

Ever try to get off the subway in New York with someone blocking the door. I’ve had to Lawrence Taylor little old ladies who have been around long enough to know better. Last year, the MTA sunk $20 million into its pathetic subway system and its biggest breakthrough were floor mats reminding people to move into the trains and not be dickheads. Reminder: we live in a civilized society.

Ever try to smile at someone in New York or give any sort of kind humanly gesture? If you answered yes, I’m sorry for your black eye bro. I had a guy come up to me and tell me his phone died and asked for directions and almost tasered him.

Every city has their own Scarlett Letter to wear, their ugly skid marks. I know I can never convince New Yorkers that Bostonians aren’t all that bad. That Derek Jeter is one of the most overrated athletes of our generation and that Tom Brady maybe possibly probably not deflating balls in a blowout win would never have affected the outcome. But, against all logic, I will still try. Because I’m from Boston and I’m a fucking winner.

Now lets all watch this Yankees fan throw beer on an opposing fan. What a bunch of neanderthals. Lock them all up and throw away the key.

Matt Keohan Avatar
Matt’s love of writing was born during a sixth grade assembly when it was announced that his essay titled “Why Drugs Are Bad” had taken first prize in D.A.R.E.’s grade-wide contest. The anti-drug people gave him a $50 savings bond for his brave contribution to crime-fighting, and upon the bond’s maturity 10 years later, he used it to buy his very first bag of marijuana.