Walking through the Village, the rats are all aglow

But despite our love for Pizza Rat — and it is a deep, abiding, burning love — we were torn in our hoisting of the rodent as the new Official Mascot of New York.

Because, as intrinsically “New York” as the spectacle of a small mammal heroically trying to overcome its physical and spiritual limits in the name of raw, atavistic greed is, there’s something missing.

That something was competition. The raw-boned, sickeningly primal nature of beast vs. beast that makes New York such a thrillingly miserable place to live sometimes always.

These rats are the PR girls cheerfully greeting one another while simultaneously planning an elaborate, point-by-point deconstruction of each other’s appearance to their coworkers. They are the Wall Street bros who slap backs at the beginning of happy hour and fist fight at the end. They are the former friends, torn apart by the pressure of trying cohabitate in a too-small two-bedroom simply because if one of them leaves the lease, the rent will shoot up by an entire comma place.

Welcome to New York, the Pizza Rats say to you. Now give me that pizza, or you’re going on the third rail.