Doorman Strike

Comedy on Seinfeld, a tragedy in my life

I’m not one of those hoity-toity Heebs with an Upper East Side penthouse.  I don’t need the door held for me when I come home.  I don’t need someone to hail me a cab in the rain.  I can do for myself.

But my dry-cleaning?  Without supervision, it’s like a retarded foundling in the woods — it could just go off with anybody.  For the love of perchloroethylene, doormen, do not strike!

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