I was first alerted to one of the culprits shortly after I moved to New York. The artisanal doughnut shop was a seductive foe, and it perfumed the air with that come-hither scent of sugary soma from halfway down the block. Those heartless bas-tards were baking delicious, iconic treats in exotic flavors like hibiscus and blood orange, and if you got there early enough, they would still be warm from the oven. Sounds nice, right? Wrong!

The business operated out of a tiny storefront adjacent to both public housing and some relatively affordable apartments, the denizens of which seemed to be unaware that patronizing the bougie bakery was tantamount to self-eviction. The “hipster” transplants and yoga-pants-wearing stroller moms were bad enough, but it was the heartbreaking ignorance of the longtime residents themselves — blind to the fact that spending $4.50 on a giant donut was basically bulldozing the homes of widows and orphans — that was the real tragedy.

Next I was turned on to the bike lane threat. With bike lanes came the imperialism of cleaner air, less traffic, physical exercise, and an often more convenient way to get around the city, without the risk of getting run over by a white Escalade with an Italian flag bumper sticker, or a Hasidic private ambulance, or some other mode of transportation favored by the natives. Ride a bike, and you might as well be impounding the cars of the proletariat yourself.