I am a horrible person. I have terrible thoughts that I usually don’t verbalize. They pop up in the tide of my thoughts, seaweed from the deep of my cerebral cortex, pushing against my lips, but I don’t speak.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m known for being a smartass speak-your-mind type. But there are things…one must not say.
Join me on my commute.
You. You with the fucking double-wide stroller, your in-vitro twins strapped in, and your three other kids running about like the sperm they once were. Is it necessary to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and check your smartphone? You can’t pull over to the right, at least? Would you do this in your car? Stop breeding. Your genes are not that important to the world.
You. With the waistband of your pants around your knees, taking up two seats on the bus because you’ve got your thighs spread so wide. Your testicles are not that precious. They are pliable! I have touched testicles. I know. Smush your thighs together so I can sit down. And either A) turn your cheap-ass earbuds down so I can’t hear your music through my kick-ass Sony Studio Monitors or B) buy some decent headphones and crack up that shit as loud as you want and go deaf.
You. Screaming into your phone on the bus. Someday, I will turn to the person screaming into into their cell phone on the bus and I will say to them, Cool Hand Luke style, ‘you need to shut up.’ Then everyone one the bus would join me in a Beat It style smackdown.
You. I’m a fat woman. Rock on, 350-pounder. What I do not do, my friend, is try to wedge myself into subway seat spaces that are obviously too small for me. You, ma’am, are actually sitting on me, not on the plastic seat itself. That is why the seat is comfortable.
You. Look at that luscious head of dark delicious hair. How Jon Hamm. Oh Dear God you’re sixteen, aren’t you. Well, what is the age of consent in New York State? Call me Mrs. Robinson. Heaven holds a place for place for those who pray. Hey hey hey. Hey hey hey.
