Hate Filled Rant No. 1

I’m sure most of you have been on the L train. Or as I like to call after the witching hour: Clusterfuck.

Well the other night Clusterfuck played its favorite gag on me: running on one track. There’s nothing quite as appealing as spending all night on your feet and loading your dragging ass onto an overcrowded platform to listen to a hipster asian teenager sing Kurt Cobain tunes he can’t quite pronounce.

Once you get on the train there is the smattering of well patched backpacks. Now it has been my life long commuter policy when I’m wearing either a backpack or saddlebag in a crowded traincar. I’ll put it at my feet. You know why: Cause I’m not a braindead asshole. Now sure, I’m willing to steal a seat from an octagenerian but I can always just claim back spasms. If you’re wearing a backpack, you are an asshole.

So this past weekend, I’m in the car, holding on to the ceiling. Sorry if anyone under 5’7 can’t relate. Without a step stool. And my bag is by my feet, but Trenchcoat, there in front of me, has decided it was alright to displace the amount of room that could be filled by four 80 pound burnt out rave girls. Naturally I’m thrilled.

On top of that, I hear the call from within the cattle crush of a man in low broken english.

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Pardon. Excuse me.”

I look up just above the pages of my book and I can see his presence coming thought the crowd. It was like when you see something coming through a field of corn. You don’t see the actual thing, just the rustling from above.

Who the fuck is this retard?

Now I don’t just throw retard out there. I once called a football player “retarded” on TV, far away from physical harm, and my brother’s ex girlfriend looked at me without a hint of irony and said, with a straight face, not kidding, “We don’t say retarded.”

Well I do. I mean who the fuck is we. I know my brother says it. It’s staple in the Massachusetts lexicon. Matt Damon in his day has surely said more then his share of re-tah-ded. I don’t like denigrated a whole sect of the population who can be very inspiring Olympians. But its offensive, THAT’S THE POINT. Anyway she’s an ex girlfriend for a reason.

So here comes this retard. He gets closer and closer and then the smell hits. Great he’s homeless and I’m reading Mole People. Last thing I want is for him to think is that I understand his plight and have him start chatting me up something. So I start reading from the beginning. So it looks like I haven’t gotten to empathy yet.

I think he was Mexican. Not that I have any proof that he was Mexican it’s just how I like to gerneralize the Latin community. It’s fun for me. Like when I call all people from Eastern Europe Commies. Sure they’re grand parents may have been tortured in the gulags, but it makes me laugh. Cause I’m an asshole.

So I really hear him coming. I hear excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me. Then to the shorter. Scuse me. Scuse. Well when he got to me. I was annoyed cause I could no longer completely ignore him.

So he starts off by bumping by trenchcoat. Pushing right past his backpack. He’s about 5’4 200 flowing grey hair and trashed out of his mind. How do I know? Because no one could smell as bad as he does and have such have a huge fucking grin on their face. Then there was the other clue which was really hit home by the girl in the multi colored eyeliner behind me.

“Oh my God, he peed.”

Sure enough puddles. Not a trail. Not a stream but little puddles squeezed out of the 20 year old Reeboks he was sporting like porous urinal cakes.

Now while I had the where with all not to touch him. Backpack shit head in front me just had the hugest look of morose on his face as he began smelling his back pack. Pee.

It’s the littlest things that make you happy.