It doesn’t get much more obvious than this. We don’t actually need to be told, as children are, that if we see something that transcends the traditional bounds of sketchiness, we ought to inform the proper authorities. A little common sense goes a long way when things get weird. Unfortunately, you can’t always do something about what you see.
This Metrocard machine has been broken all week:
That old ho inside the booth isn’t going to do anything but hand me a complaint envelope so ancient that the moment it passes from her gloved fingers to mine, it’ll disintegrate into dust, much like my hopes of ever getting a new Metrocard.
Train’s going warp speed through a tunnel, this fool has his laptop open, just clacking away:
I can’t wait until you drop it. I can’t wait until you drop it. Oh merciful universe, if you have ever wanted to repay me for all my childhood bullying or the sheer concept of student loans, you will chuck a raccoon onto the tracks, so that our car lurches forward and this man learns a very expensive lesson.
The person who has no idea that I can blatantly see them staring at me:
What is it this time? My outfit? My afro? Keen peripheral vision is my party trick, you’re not slick, in the slightest.
There goes Stupid Blown Out Headphone Person:
It’s always Top 40 with you, isn’t it? I can tell that you’ve never wondered, or cared, why every last rider in your car was staring at you with the shade of a million palm trees combined. Please don’t sing along. There’s nothing we can do to get through to you. What could I even say to you that you would hear? Your going deaf is my reward.
That woman is yelling at her child:
All he did was turn around in his seat because we’re in that stupid Q train tunnel where the squiggly lines dance outside the window. Did you really have to wrench his hand and twirl him back like a spinning top? His legs didn’t even touch me, which is more than I can say for most of the pre – K renegades I end up seated next to. But he was polite and never soiled my pants’ leg with his tiny Reeboks. Yet you still felt it necessary to shriek like a banshee, calling him every name but the one on his birth certificate, ushering in a lifetime of abuse and proving to me, within and without, that you had no right to take a pregnancy to term. I want to beat your ass with the force of a thousand wind gusts, but I can’t. You might be carrying, and I may love Vegas but I’m not a gambler.
He who is masturbating in front of me:
No, no, it’s totally cool; whip out your musty junk and dingle dangle it in front of me. Hey, if you throw in some dancing and a show tune, I’ll even tip you. Yeah, right after I bash your face in with my 24-ounce titanium Thermos. If I do it just right, I think we can time the fountain of blood geysering from your forehead to the music, just like Disney’s Fantasia. Looks like a dream is a wish your heart makes.