...of why I hate New York City.
See, by definition, practically everybody in New York City wants to be there.
Either they have lived there all their lives and haven't the intellect required to operate a tollbooth and escape, or they moved there, having been born some hayseed Kansan who dreamed of Broadway for some unknown but no doubt perverted reason.
These people all consider themselves sane, and they all want to be New Yorkers, and so they assume that all other sane people do, too, but we just couldn't scrape up the bus fare or something.
So, since they have control of the TV cameras because we refuse to drop cluster bombs on Rockefeller Plaza for reasons that have yet to be clearly explained to me, we in the rest of the country have to watch them writhe in ritual sackcloth and ashes when one of their former mayors shuffles off his mortal coil, so that we can vicariously share in their Big Appleness.
Dear New York City: If only there were some way I could possibly convey to you how little of a ____ I gave about your dead ex-mayor, I would, but I'm afraid that my amount of concern strays dangerously close to the Planck length, and is therefore so tiny that it's hard to convey to physicists, let alone drama or business majors.