Friday just wasn’t my day. If I have to say one more time that I was on my way to work when some dumb shit happened, I’m gonna quit my fucking job….
I get on the 5 train and choose a two-seater. The car is pretty much empty and I have my choice of seats which is always a good thing early in the morning. My arms are gloriously bare in my striped wrap around shirt and surprisingly the car doesn’t feel like some Inuit’s crib in Nome. I drape my olive blazer across my lap, settle my bag on top of it and follow my normal pattern. I turn up whatever is on the pod at the moment (Roy Ayers – Shoo-bee-doo, run, run, ruuuuuuun...), whip out my trusty Papermate (fine point blue) and search my Daily News for the Crossword II (it’s more challenging than the one in the comics section).
Train pulls into the next stop as I am trying to figure out who Kurt Weill’s Lotte is (anyone, anyone?) and if you are about to say “and a fat bitch gets on the train” then you just ruined the fucking story. Ok, I admit, many of my tales do involve my abhorrence of the portly but I can’t help it, that’s my life.
Yeah, so Bertha gets on and you guessed it… all the fucking empty seats in the damn car and she sits next to me. Why, oh why am I plagued with fat people? Is there a fat pheromone that I emit that attracts them? Am I a friggin obesity magnet? I’m immediately uncomfortable and begin to internally debate whether I should get up and move, silently cursing what ever impish demon it is that so enjoys besetting me with the horizontally challenged. Did I mention the fat bitch had on a tank top? No? My bad. The fat bitch had on a tank top. Her arms looked like slabs of boiled beef.
So I’m debating while the train is trundling on its merry way, she’s swaying like an overloaded pack-y-derm and her arm keeps touching mine. Her skin has the consistency of, um, silly putty that has been dropped one too many times. Damp, clammy and gritty. Yuck and Ew! I begin to mumble under my breath while trying to concentrate on the Russian headline maker of 1957 (anyone, anyone?). I guess the volume of my mumbling had increased because Pudgee the fat Fuck turns to me and says “Excuse me?” screwing up her giant pie hole.
Something clicked in my head (I’ve got to get the shit fixed – the clicking, not my head) and I repeated myself in a low voice. She looked confused but for some reason I couldn’t stop repeating myself until I was screaming at the top of my lungs “STOP TOUCHING ME YOU FAT BITCH!”
I didn’t hear her response. All I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears. I dimly recall counting but didn’t realize I what I was counting was the strokes as I stabbed my pen into my newspaper. When my breathing returned to normal a few stops later, I had bent a perfectly good pen, ruined a perfectly good crossword and missed a few stops. Thank goodness none of the missed stops were mine.
The fat chick was gone. She wasn’t even in the car. The people sitting across from me had gotten up and moved. I rode the rest of the way to work in peace.
Scotty, cancel that beam up, I think I’m on to something...
I get on the 5 train and choose a two-seater. The car is pretty much empty and I have my choice of seats which is always a good thing early in the morning. My arms are gloriously bare in my striped wrap around shirt and surprisingly the car doesn’t feel like some Inuit’s crib in Nome. I drape my olive blazer across my lap, settle my bag on top of it and follow my normal pattern. I turn up whatever is on the pod at the moment (Roy Ayers – Shoo-bee-doo, run, run, ruuuuuuun...), whip out my trusty Papermate (fine point blue) and search my Daily News for the Crossword II (it’s more challenging than the one in the comics section).
Train pulls into the next stop as I am trying to figure out who Kurt Weill’s Lotte is (anyone, anyone?) and if you are about to say “and a fat bitch gets on the train” then you just ruined the fucking story. Ok, I admit, many of my tales do involve my abhorrence of the portly but I can’t help it, that’s my life.
Yeah, so Bertha gets on and you guessed it… all the fucking empty seats in the damn car and she sits next to me. Why, oh why am I plagued with fat people? Is there a fat pheromone that I emit that attracts them? Am I a friggin obesity magnet? I’m immediately uncomfortable and begin to internally debate whether I should get up and move, silently cursing what ever impish demon it is that so enjoys besetting me with the horizontally challenged. Did I mention the fat bitch had on a tank top? No? My bad. The fat bitch had on a tank top. Her arms looked like slabs of boiled beef.
So I’m debating while the train is trundling on its merry way, she’s swaying like an overloaded pack-y-derm and her arm keeps touching mine. Her skin has the consistency of, um, silly putty that has been dropped one too many times. Damp, clammy and gritty. Yuck and Ew! I begin to mumble under my breath while trying to concentrate on the Russian headline maker of 1957 (anyone, anyone?). I guess the volume of my mumbling had increased because Pudgee the fat Fuck turns to me and says “Excuse me?” screwing up her giant pie hole.
Something clicked in my head (I’ve got to get the shit fixed – the clicking, not my head) and I repeated myself in a low voice. She looked confused but for some reason I couldn’t stop repeating myself until I was screaming at the top of my lungs “STOP TOUCHING ME YOU FAT BITCH!”
I didn’t hear her response. All I could hear was the pounding of blood in my ears. I dimly recall counting but didn’t realize I what I was counting was the strokes as I stabbed my pen into my newspaper. When my breathing returned to normal a few stops later, I had bent a perfectly good pen, ruined a perfectly good crossword and missed a few stops. Thank goodness none of the missed stops were mine.
The fat chick was gone. She wasn’t even in the car. The people sitting across from me had gotten up and moved. I rode the rest of the way to work in peace.
Scotty, cancel that beam up, I think I’m on to something...
4 comments:
Jinkies! I sometimes feel like a magnet to scary people...
I sometimes find a stern look will drive people away.
It's an unwritten rule that when on the train, the fat person or the smelly person WILL find you and sit next to you. That shit never fails, unfortunately...
Absolutely. muthafuckin. DEAD. LMAO x 10.
Man, I can relate to the tragedies of having your circulation cut off by these hunchback heifers and then when you try (in vain) to wiggle free a millimeter's worth of room, they'll push their yak hair outta the way to give YOU the screwface. It's too damn hot to be this close.
Um,
I'm hippy and I hate when someone 10x bigger than me, squeezes in next to me... when there's free seats elsewhere on the bus...
yesterday, this man sat perpendicular to me... his elbow almost touched my knee... which was a crime in and of itself... and he smelled like a musty, mildewy basement. I feel your pain.
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