As many of you know, I was recently elected to the highest office of the biggest city in the United States: Player King of New York City. And while I’m proud to exercise that position (WHAT UP?!?), I’m constantly reminded of the age-old saying: “Heavy is the head that wears the chick-banging crown.”

You see, presiding over the High Council of Players in a city full of bros trying to score chicks is a difficult task when you consider the challenges facing any major metropolitan area, such as:

– Fashion crime
– Waist management
– Dibspute resolutions
– Erection fraud
– Brollution

Fortunately, many of my initiatives have already had a positive effect on the city, in particular “Naked Shakespeare in the Park,” “Boobs for the Homeless” and of course, “Stop and Frisk.” But as I tackle the remaining problems, I find it’s helpful to reflect on my own journey and how I was first introduced to the High Council of Players…


In the spring of 2004 I was at a Staten Island gym trying to scope out the admittedly weak local talent. Fortunately this was when yoga pants first became a thing so it wasn’t a total waste of my time. I had set up camp on an elliptical machine that afforded a direct view of the steppers as well as an indirect view of the ladies locker room door off the reflection from the racquetball court. While pretending to ellipticalize I was approached by a tan, muscular gent named Lou, who claimed to have dibs on my perch. Unable to settle our dispute via Broshambo, Lou handed me a mysterious card with an address and silently walked away.

Curious, I showed up later that night to discover a posh Victorian mansion with a large sign on the front that read: “Secret Meeting Place of the High Council of Players.” Inside, I met five men, all of different ilk, style and manner and yet each devilishly handsome in his own way. They hailed from the five different boroughs of New York. The man from the gym: Staten Island Lou. Tuxedo Charlie from Manhattan. Bronx Donnie. Captain Bill from Queens. And from Brooklyn, Trucker Hat Bob, who later changed his name to Pickle Jar Bob… owing to the fickle trends of his borough, Bob must constantly reinvent himself. Call it evbrolution.

The Council members explained how they had first assembled to resolve any childish, territorial scuffles over which chicks they wanted to fool into sleeping with them. Ultimately, for convenience, they agreed to limit their activities to within each of their boroughs. I had been summoned before them because I had unwittingly scored in each of their boroughs with Bronx Donnie particularly upset at my uncanny impersonation of Yankees middle reliever Jeff Nelson that landed me a gullible yet perky Fordham cheerleader. Fearful that my transgressions would lead to severe punishment, imagine my surprise when Tuxedo Charlie offered to split his Manhattan turf with me. The Council had been so impressed with my considerable gamesmanship that they officially awarded me a seat at the table. Later, they formally laid out the rules and covenants that have governed my exploits until this very day.


P.S. You’re not supposed to know about the council so please don’t tell anyone this.