Teetering Towards Suicide, Try Public Transportation

There may be nothing worse than taking a fucking train.  Today, taking a commuter train, which is supposed to be one step up the evolutionary chart from the NYC subways, I managed to get what I thought was a cherry seat.  Of course, the hugest human being on the east coast sits next to me.  Now, he didn’t mean to sit next to me.  I was on the inside seat of a three seat and fucking Haystacks took up the other two seats.  Luckily, the train wasn’t completely packed or some 190 lb. woan would have jammed her 50 year old flat cottage cheese packed in highly flammable polyester ass in between us. 

Now, to Mongo’s credit, he didn’t quite smell from a third of seat away.  I mean you could smell the humanity of it, he sweating like Shaq on the foul line.  But he didn’t stink, except for the occassional ass whiff, that I hoped I was imagining.  I can’t even blame him necessarily for the smell, it may have bee an reflex, like, “Look a fat bastard?  . . . Did I just small rancid ass?”  Still, my stomach was turning at the thought of dingleberries the size of meatballs lurking about a foot away.

Anyway, I made it home and when I asked him to get up to let me out, he didn’t try to eat me.  So, I guess all is well.  Then again, I have to go back on the fucking train tomorrow.  Fuck.

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