Who loves a horse race?
Are not too many fond of it?
Does it not lead to many evils,
and to frequent ruin?
Never go to a horse race.

Mr. Mix had one child,
whom he called Irene;
he had also a good farm,
and some money.

He went to the races with his child,
dressed in black crape for the loss of her mother.
Here Mr. Mix drank freely,
and bet largely,
and lost all he was worth.

At night he went home a beggar;
took a dose of brandy,
and died before morning,
leaving his child a pennyless orphan.
Never go to a horse race.

From The Clinton Primer, 1830, via Futility Closet. Submitted by Gabriel Smy.

You live very self-consciously, in Brooklyn.
Do you drink juice or coffee or eat vegetables?
How do you live with yourself
and your bourgeois lifestyle choices?
Have you ever grown a plant?

You monster, you
gentrifying Brooklyn monster.

Your plant is a symbol.
Punch that up on your sushi iPhone app
where you get your food from
in your new robot Brooklyn dystopia,
you invasive specie.

Do you like quirky things?

It’s people like you
who are ruining the Brooklyn remembered
by old folks who sit on stoops
and provide readily available sound bites
about the days of old.

From the article Brooklyn is cool until you start reading about it in Gawker. Submitted by Gabriel Smy.