Dear Rush Hour Public Transit,
How I loathe you so.
Allergic to you. xo
I’m sure this will be a regular topic, seeing as everyday is a struggle on this mass people mover contraption.
Today’s topic: Rush hour.
It’s so wonderful when you leave an exhausting day at work, jump on the subway, only to find yourself sandwiched in between a random armpit, fartmaster 3000, and dude with backpack.
First of all, to dude with backpack: Use you’re judgment. If the goddamn thing is three times the size of you, you might (just maybe) think about… I don’t know, taking it off. I mean, is it really necessary to backpack body-check each time you inhale?
Second, fartmaster 3000: You’re not fooling anyone. I can still tell it’s you thanks to your very obvious ‘who done it’ looks. By the way, you should probably stay away from whatever you’re eating, because, damn, it ain’t pretty when it’s blasted out of your ass.
And last but not least, my random armpit friend: Although the first deodorant was put on the market in 1965, it was invented in 1888. That’s more than enough time to get on that. For real. And if for some bizarro world reason you choose not to use it, please, I beg of you, keep those arms down.
So to cure myself from the ‘I’m-going-to-clock-one-of-these-mofos-straight-between-the-eyes’ blues, I chose to walk off my aggression rather than face the same situation on the bus ride home, and make a pit stop to the ever so enchanting LCBO that just opened down the street from me.
You: LCBO? What the hell is that?
Me: Translation: Booze! See, here in Canada (excluding the province of Quebec, those lucky bastards) we can’t go to our neighbourhood store, gas station or supermarket to get our buzz on, seeing as complete chaos would errupt and the world as we know it would end. No one would show up to work, holigans would take over the streets, pizza and wings would be consumed in mass quantities, the market would crash, and Canada would sink into the very center of earth. The beavers and moose would migrate to the United States and consequently be the only reminder of our tragic downfall. So, instead, the government controls our access (to avoid the above). Isn’t it grand?
On that note, my glass is lonely.
My Glass: Drink me. Love me. Indulge me.
Me: Okay. You got it.