The Reading Over My Shoulder
As I mentioned, I do almost all of my writing on public transportation so I'm a little sensitive to people who like nothing more than spending their commute checking out my half-written Cracked columns or Hate By Numbers edits. But this grievance applies equally to newspaper snoopers and novel peepers too. Is it the worst thing in the world? No. Can you casually take a moment to glance at your neighbor's stuff just out of curiosity? Sure. Can you spend 50% of the ride creeping my screen while pretending you're not? Not without me calling you a dbag. Yes you. The dude next to me wearing too much cologne and who got on the train two stops ago. Yes, you with the Kenneth Cole shoes and Navy blue suit. And still. Still you're pretending you're not reading this? OK dude. Dude who is probably taking a train into the city solely for the purposes of buying a small girl from Thailand.
Yeah, that's right. Now look away. Good. I'm sorry. I just don't want any passenger sitting next to me checking out my stuff.
Obviously, this rule doesn't apply to everyone.
The In Through The Out Door
I can hear your exclamations now. (Yes, all the Cracked columnists can hear your exclamations. Didn't you know that? Oh, and all of us have bones made of adamantium except Christina, but she can fly.) "But Gladstone," you exclaim. "There are no 'in' doors or 'out' doors on subways and buses! Just one door."
But I have to disagree with you. There is certainly an 'in' and an 'out' door. When the doors open up and I'm trying to get out, then it's an "out" door. When I'm gone, then it becomes an "in" door. That shouldn't be so hard to grasp. I mean, think about your rectum. Oh, you already were? Cool. Anyway, you only have one anus but which way things are flowing can be kind of important, right? You wouldn't try to wipe yourself in the middle of excreting, would you? And yet some of these human toilet paper passengers try to get inside when my fellow commuters and I are just trying to exit. Yeah, I hear you exclaiming again. I just created a metaphor likening myself to feces. Yeah, well, y'know, shut up.
Yeah, this is what I think of you. Hurts, doesn't it?
The Getting Sodomized By Your Rickshaw Driver
Look, I don't want to hear it. Just because I want to be transported in a carriage by an Asian cartoon in a triangle-shaped bamboo hat does not mean that I'm asking to be anally penetrated against my will. I mean, with all the luxuries offered by our 21st century world have we really become so immune to these indignities? Just because we enjoy the ease and convenience of another human being dragging us to our destination somehow non-consensual sodomy is back on the table? I don't think so. And what's with you rickshaw drivers anyway? I would think that after a backbreaking day of transporting human cargo through busy city streets, you'd be too exhausted to even think of sexually violating your passengers. Is it just me? I've had it. I swear. One more time and I'm totally taking the bus.
You're on thin ice, buddy!