Squatting on the hot stone seat, contemplating, the way Siddhartha Gautama might've, brooding over perhaps the most skull-crunching quandary since Nick at Nite settled the Chachi Arcola vs. Charles in Charge debate. I was inches from deciding to go with the skinny Indian Buddha over the pot-bellied Chinese one, when a royal string of guffaws erupted.

The Shirts and Ties took turns mocking an Indian frolicking through Citicorp's man-made waterfall.

Sure it was their lunch break and it's a free country if you own a Fortune 500 Company, but do Armani-wearing, Lexus-driving stock jocks have to be covered by freedom of expression?

The Shirts and Ties stopped jeering only when a sexy mamacita, sucking a blue ice pop passed by, instantly puttying them, the whole pongid lot, hooting and hollering while they fumbled with crotches. Glued to her camel toe, biting into their fists, they wished upon the napping stars that she might pick it out.

I almost screamed.

Till someone beat me to it.

"Monsoon, Mon-SOOON," the Indian shouted.

An Indian, as in smell of camphor, taste of curry, not to be confused with the Pakistani newsstand mogul a spitball away, riffing through a nudie mag.

The bawdy laughter and the Slurpee jokes nearly ceased, that is, till the Indian cuffed his pants, way the hell, up to his knees. The Shirts and Ties sculpted their brown bags and paper plates into ammunition.

Tinfoil Scuds flew in the Indian's general direction.

It nearly got ugly till Mamasita bobbled her popsicle, unsuccessfully removing it from her bluish mouth, allowing it to spiral bungie all the way down to her naked leg.

Two of the Shirts and Ties jumped from their seats. One undid his pink and white Burberry striped tie. The other produced a monogrammed hanky from his pants pocket. They raced toward Mamasita, until they both arrived by her side simultaneously.

Dorkily they gazed at each other, scratching their thinning hairlines. Then they duked it out with a few rounds of rock, paper, scissors. When that didn't pan out they digressed to a healthy thumb-wrestling bout. Mamasita wetting her plush lips with each ensuing thumb thrust.

Had everyone gone mad or horny?

Back and forth, the Indian ran, pumping his knees high above his waist, football tire-running style, leaving behind tiny whirlpool tracks.

"Monsoon, Mon-SOOON," he bellowed.

A cop, one of Lexington Avenue's flabbiest, stuffing an overly-sauerkrauted hotdog down his yap watched in amusement.

Till the proverbial Old Bag, hobbling along in her brand-spanking-new, rustproof walker, jabbed the metal tip on the cop's toe.

He squealed like a banshee.

"What the hell was that for?" he said, then wiped a gob of mustard, onion and sauerkraut onto his sleeve.

"Petey you're a slob."

"Aunt Rose it's lunchtime."

"Shouldn't you cuff that colored hoodlum?"

"He's a dot head."

"Cuff'im."

What happened next, was hard to imagine, let alone watch before your bloodshot eyeballs. It unfolded as a freakshow of discombobulated slides, probably because my Bourbon and Amoxicilin were just, at that most fortunate moment, kicking in.

Nonetheless, the Old Bag shuffled with her walker over to Citicorp's man-made waterfall, smashing into the stony edges. She hoisted up her leg, revealing a very varicose calf. Defying the laws of gravity and sanity, impersonating Ralph Maccio's famed gimp leg, extra-point karate kick, she closer resembled a shriveled flamenco as the Indian leap-frogged near her. A two-foot tidal wave swallowed her ninety-pound frame.

She shook a scrawny fist.

The next thing you know she soared into the air with the greatest ease [doing the huckle buckle with the original Barnum and Bailey really paid off] and flying-body-pressed the Indian.

Submerged for a few seconds, beneath a burbling swish of rings, their pruning fingertips resurfaced.

"I'm making a citizen's arrest," she pronounced, as water and snot dribbled out of her nose.

Rafting atop him, she looked him over, then eyed her nephew, the cop, who was gumming down his third hot dog.

By this time the whole gang presided over the whole shebang. Men in uniform. Divas in fishnets. A Marist Brother speeding through Hail Marys. It was a feast of sore eyes. The Shirts and Ties even held hands with the Lilith Fair sound crew.

And then an integrated flock of pigeons and wayward seagulls swooped down, perching alongside the black-marbled fall.

Without an ounce of shame the Old Bag kissed the Indian square on the mouth and said, "You're cute for a colored guy."