Tuesday, June 29, 2004
son of a bitch
I want all of you to be my witnesses: if I ever fall ill on the subway and thus risk lengthening the commute for millions of New Yorkers, please drag me off the subway train and shoot me to death.
This morning, because of a "sick passenger" at Grand Central station, the 4-5-6 trains (which service the entire East Side of NYC) were massively delayed. My commute, which should take 30 minutes, took 90 minutes.
It was to say the least the worst experience of my entire life. The stations were packed with a mass of sweaty, angry, and tired people, pushing, shoving, and arguing with each other. I was standing near a woman and her, oh about twelve or so children, when she screamed to her boy about 8 years old:
Mom: "I'm telling you Cleo - I don't give a fuck. If someone pushes you, you push them right the fuck back!"
Boy: "That's what I'm doing Mom!"
This exchanged thus replaced the murder of the super hot Laci Peterson as the saddest thing I've ever heard.
[My dad's quote after learning about the Laci Peterson case: "I mean, I could see killing your wife, but killing your unborn child? That just ain't right." I guess I'll never know why my parents got divorced.]
So seriously, if I present any possibly delay to the commuters, even if I only have so much as a cough, drag my fat ass off the train and shoot me three times: once in the heart and twice in the crotch, because I don't want any grave-robbers stealing my genitals as I will surely need them in the afterlife.
This continues a rough stretch for the NYC subway, as yesterday the fourth shooting in a month occurred at Wall Street station at 4pm, which is only one stop away from my work.
So a message to the MTA: Guys, let's get it together here. The delays, the shootings...what's going on? Who the hell is running the show over there? Because, honestly, I am only one more delayed commute from losing my shit on the train. Now you can't say you haven't been warned.